


Spoils of War

by StormEnchanter



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Intersex Loki (Marvel), Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, This fic has some Asgardian sibling solidarity in it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormEnchanter/pseuds/StormEnchanter
Summary: A war between Asgard and Sakaar has been waging for five years. Long enough that when Odin agrees to the terms of a peace treaty with the charming yet enigmatic ruler of the enemy kingdom that Loki wonders if his father's finally gone mad. That is until he learns of the terms of the peace treaty: an end to the war for the hand of the youngest prince of Asgard. So begins the tale of Loki and the Grandmaster's marriage, with political mind games, secrets, and an assassination attempt, Loki begins to peel back the layers and find out who his husband truly is.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Hildegarde (Marvel), En Dwi Gast | Grandmaster/Loki, Hela & Loki & Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 67





	1. The Spoils of War

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Frostmaster fic that was born of a desire to see the Grandmaster and Loki pushing each other's buttons until they inevitably fuck. Well, that and some wholesome Frostmaster food since there wasn't enough in the fandom currently to keep me fed. So strap in and enjoy! This fic is going to go places.

Milky white stars twinkle brightly in the dark sky, blue and purple blending together as if an artist had purposely spilled different buckets of paint on a blank canvas to see what would become of their madness.

A low fire burns in the bedchamber’s fireplace, the sweet-scented logs splitting open, embers dancing and twisting away from the burning wood. The bedchamber is opulent, richly decorated with hues of gold and scarlet, just the barest hints of cream peek out amongst the richer colors. The bedchamber is divided into two, a small set of marble steps leads into a well maintained sleeping quarter with a sumptuous bed that could easily hold four or five people in it comfortably. In the main section of the chambers, holds an octagonal bath upon a dais, a gilded bench is tucked against the wall closest to the fireplace. Next to it a small table that holds a pitcher of mead. Throw pillows, rugs, and vases of ferns are artfully placed around the room in a way that seems inviting but never lets a guest forget the prosperity of one’s host.

Cream-colored curtains quiver gently from the light breeze that drifts in from the balcony. The curtains flutter ever so slightly revealing a lone figure standing upon the balcony. A gold robe is wrapped around the body, the sash at their waist loose in such a manner that the robe almost slips from their narrow frame and is barely held up by slim shoulders. Inky black hair that comes down to their nape is ruffled lightly from the breeze.

“Marriage,” Loki scoffs as he leans against the balcony, a goblet of mead rests gently in his right hand. His teeth clack together in anger as that singular word tumbles past his lips. His brows are wrinkled as he gazes out on the warm lights of the Asgardian capital. “That old fool,” he hisses, thoughts turning to the family dinner from earlier that has set the tone for his foul mood tonight.

Loki had sat at the dining table, his mother, Frigga, sitting across from him with his father, Odin, taking his place at the head of the table. The solid wooden table is adorned with three sets of plates, cups, and cutlery made from pure gold. A cornucopia of food decorates the table, filling the dining hall with a heady scent of food basted in an alarming amount of butter. In Loki’s opinion, the table holds more food than necessary for three people, and he notes with some bitterness that much of the food happens to be his favorite. His emerald green eyes flicker up to stare at Odin who cuts into the browned flesh of a whole roasted chicken, carving a slice off for himself as if he has no other care in the world. Loki knows the old man is trying to butter him up, knows that he’s trying to placate him with food and drink before dumping bad news into his lap. It’s what his father had always done to him and his other children, a layer of sweet just before it was all broken to pieces with bad news.

Feeling his stomach grow colder and heavier with every bite of food that slips past his lips, Loki’s shoulders are tense as he waits for the news to drop, thinking that it could possibly be news from the front lines about Hela or Thor. He can hardly taste the meal from how bitter his mouth is.

“We received a messenger today,” Odin finally opens his mouth, lets his words flow slowly out as if to test what weight they’ll have on his family.

Frigga’s warm eyes glitter with hope, thinking that this will be news of her two eldest children who have been stationed on the front lines of a war that’s been going on for five years now. Loki, however, is distrustful of whatever news Odin has to share with them. He knows his father too well, knows his stubbornness, and his penchant for being vainglorious when it comes to the wars he wages and the conquests he often leads with his elder sister, Hela. He knows there would be no need for this abundant spread of food and drink unless there was something more attached to Odin’s words.

“From Sakaar,” the words are pushed out through Odin’s teeth, he glances at neither of them as he lifts up his goblet of mead and sips from it.

“From Sakaar?” Loki notes the bitter edges that surround his mother’s words as she speaks, her eyes are narrowed ever so slightly as she stares at Odin, her gaze so pointed that he sees beneath it the dangerous pit viper of a woman that he’d only heard so many tales about. This dangerous woman that had brought Odin to his knees in a duel; the first and only time Odin had ever bent the knee to anyone poets had claimed. It makes him wonder for the millionth time in his life what Frigga was like before her marriage, in the wild of her youth when it seemed like the world was her playground. For everything that he thinks about Odin and how Frigga is his right hand, she’s dangerous and deadly in her own right when the occasion arises.

“Yes,” Odin finally lifts his single eye to stare at his wife, “it was terms of a peace treaty.”

That makes Loki’s brows rise swiftly upon his face. Odin had waged this war for five years now to the point that Loki, or much of Asgard really, is uncertain whether they or Sakaar started it. Odin’s legacy had been built upon war, just like his father and his father’s father before him. There’s no way Odin would even consider the idea of peace instead of brutally crushing his enemies and bringing them to submission, there was no way Odin would agree to the terms of a peace treaty—

“—I’ve already agreed to them,” Odin’s words strike an odd chord within Loki’s chest. Frigga’s gaze goes hard as steel as if she doesn’t understand her husband’s words, much less understand the inner workings of his mind. The torchlight within the dining hall casts shadows upon their faces, the warm, enchanted light a juxtaposition to the cold tone of his mother’s words that follow after.

“My love,” Frigga’s upper lip curls slightly, her tone cold and brittle as she speaks. Despite the warmth of the dining hall, Loki swears that it’s grown colder, the flames in their sconces seem dimmer. “What were these terms?”

For a moment, Odin says nothing as if he knew his wife’s reaction would be less than pleased when Sakaar’s messenger approached him with the terms of the peace treaty. When he does finally speak, he notices Odin pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“A hand in marriage.”

“Who’s?” Despite the sharp whisper of the word, it bounces off of the walls like a dagger made of ice.

“The youngest prince of Asgard.”

All warmth seems to suck itself out of the room. There’s no sound, no nothing. Except, for the disappointment and enraged embers that spark in Frigga’s eyes. Loki can tell his mother is infuriated, she’s meant to be Odin’s ear, his voice of reason, and yet he’s gone and done something foolhardy without consulting her. Giving in to terms that would force her to give her youngest child away.

The thick tension that drapes itself over the room only gives way when delirious laughter frees itself from Loki’s chest. Frigga and Odin turn their gazes upon him as if hearing this news has driven him to become unhinged. It’s rich, Loki realizes, agreeing to the terms of a mad man while his two eldest children are away. He’s grateful that Hela isn’t there because she’d laugh at his expense; laugh like Loki had come into the throne room dressed in motley, mead would slosh from the lip of her goblet, splatter on the back of her hand. Thor would be enraged. Hotheaded enough to destroy something on his way out of the room. To give their brother over to a man that had treated their war like a mere child’s game of chess? Loki laughs to himself, Odin has gone mad.

“I’ve already agreed,” Odin informs them, only causing Loki to laugh even harder.

His laughter seems to make Frigga’s anger even more scalding, tears spring to Loki’s eyes as he covers his mouth with his hand. There’s the bad news he was waiting for, the bad news Odin had to butter him up to hear.

“Have you gone mad!” A roar tears itself out of Frigga’s chest, her chair scraping against the floor as she rises out of her seat. Peering down at her husband as if her eyes could shoot daggers out of them, Odin’s lips press into a thin line as he addresses his wife.

“What’s done is done,” he tells her, leaving her no room to argue against the matter.

 _And there is none_ , Loki finds himself thinking bitterly, his laughter dying down. Whenever Odin has made up his mind on a matter, his word is final. No argument, no fuss, what Odin decrees must be done.

Frigga’s eyes slip shut, her lips pressed so tightly together that they bleed themselves of color. “When is the wedding?”

“In two week’s time.”

A sigh stumbles from Frigga’s lips. In Loki’s honest opinion she looks like she’s considering taking up the golden knife near her pinky and stabbing Odin’s other eye out with it, from the look of anger simmering in her eyes, Loki’s convinced, she’s already thought of the idea.

Hours after dinner and Loki finds himself on the balcony, peering down at the capital city of Asgard with all of its bright lights twinkling with merriment meanwhile he’s up above, brooding, all joy ripped out of him the moment Odin opened his mouth at dinner. His life’s been signed away by Odin to a man he’s never met, never seen much less seen, and whom he knows nothing about. Immediately after dinner, he had headed straight to the royal library to find any and all information he could about the mysterious ruler of Sakaar, the Grandmaster.

There’d been nothing.

No information about the man’s age, his appearance, not even the few history books they had on Sakaar indicated whether the man was a native of the land he ruled or if he came from elsewhere. It seems that the moment Sakaar came into existence so too did this mysterious Grandmaster. What little information did exist, was strictly confined to how the Grandmaster had united the warring tribes and races of Sakaar together, turned the kingdom into one where fun, entertainment, and hedonism reigned supreme.

Sighing to himself, Loki turns just as he hears a knock on his chamber doors and finds the gold doors being pushed open. Slipping into the room, Frigga smiles upon seeing him, the skirt of her dress drags against the floor in a muted whisper, gliding to the middle of the room, she takes a seat on the edge of the octagonal bath.

“Taken a bath yet?” She smiles at him, though the movement is full of warmth, he can see her anger toward Odin still simmering beneath the surface.

“No,” he responds, lifting his goblet to his lips, he tips his head back and drains it of the rest of his mead.

“Come,” Frigga waves her hand at him, motioning for him to move toward her.

Stepping back into his chambers, Loki sets the goblet down on the lower step of the dais that leads up toward the bath. Shedding himself of his robe, his long limbs the color of milk sinks into the water heated up by his mother’s magic. A sigh leaves his lips as he doesn’t so much as hear, but senses her conjuring up supplies with her seiðr. He hears her lathering up her hands with soap and begins to work the suds into his hair, her fingers massaging into his scalp. Sighing contentedly, Loki relaxes under her ministrations as she tends to his hair like she used to do when he was a child.

Their quiet reprieve is broken up moments later, by a single question. “How are you?”

He snorts loudly, “Like a man who’s just been told that his life ends in two week’s time.”

Frigga sighs, it’s a low sound that comes from deep within her chest. Picking up a pitcher of hot water, she slowly pours it over his lathered hair, soap slides from his locks, and down his skin. Placing the pitcher down, she picks up a crystal vile of oil and pours some out in her hand. The scent of olive oil and rose water tickles at his nose.

“Your father,” she pauses as if searching for the right word. Her fingers work the oil into his hair, glides it through each of his strands, “means well,” she ultimately settles for.

“Means well?” Loki cocks a brow that his mother can’t see. “If he meant well he wouldn’t agree to marry me off to a man history knows nothing about.”

Frigga’s lips clamp shut, then purse together as if she knows the root of her child’s argument and agrees with it to an extent. “Your father,” she starts again, eyes still burning with anger, “has his reasons.”

Twisting in the bathwater, Loki stares at his mother. “His reasons?” Loki’s serpentine-like hiss trails off into a bitter laugh. “Odin was never one to agree to terms of peace before so what has changed?”

Frigga’s eyes turn tender, a sigh leaving her lips like she’s known Loki wouldn’t understand.

“Your father has realized that peace is a better legacy to leave behind for the Nine Realms rather than war and the spoils it has to offer.”

Loki’s eyes widen, two pools of emerald that stare deeply into the calm waters of the sea. Shock weaves itself through his veins at Odin’s sudden changes of policy. “And what’s brought this on?” He asks, “when Odin has been entangled in war’s bed for longer than I’ve been alive, he exchanged his right eye for knowledge at Mimir’s well all for the sake of gaining an upper hand against his enemies. He drank from war’s cup in the same fashion as his father and his father’s father and all the Asgardian kings that have come before him. So what’s changed? What’s made the old fool finally go mad?”

A sigh comes from Frigga again, it seems to be all she can do this evening. “You’re too young to truly understand.” Loki’s nose wrinkles in offense at that, he may be 1,070 years old but he’s definitely not a child. “Odin has lived a long life, long enough to recognize that some things are just more important than others.” Reaching out, she cups one of Loki’s cheeks, her warm palm brushing against his skin, the pad of her thumb stroking against the soft skin of his cheek. “Be joyous,” she tells him, “Thor and Hela are returning from the front lines tomorrow.”

He groans, that’s just more bad news on top of an already horrible evening. He’s unappeased by the fact that he’ll have to deal with his obnoxious brother and his sister who will take pleasure in his misfortune.

Patting his cheek as if she can understand his pain, Frigga returns to oiling his hair and presses a kiss upon his cheek before leaving him alone to his bath.

The next morning fairs no better as Loki is greeted by the sound of his sibling’s entrance. Or more importantly, greeted by the sound of a heavy metal door being thrown open by Thor’s ridiculous strength. The door to the dining hall is twisted open, a fist-sized hole warping the gold metal in the middle of it as if Thor had punched it open, with a roll of his eyes, Loki is certain that that’s what Thor actually did. Servants who had been walking behind Thor stare warily at the dented door, the metal just hanging off of the hinges and the delicate vinework and other details upon the door damaged beyond recognition.

Storming into the dining hall, with lightning crackling off of his fingertips, Thor roars, “YOU OLD FOOL!” His words are like a thunderclap in the hall causing servants to wince from the sound alone.

“Thor!” Frigga gasps, outraged by her son’s outburst, “watch your tongue!”

Odin’s face is unblemished by a lack of emotions, he holds a single hand up and informs Frigga that it’s alright.

“Have you no shame!” Thor continues to roar, feet pounding against the floor as he marches toward the table.

Hela strolls into the dining hall after Thor, an impish grin causing her lips to curl as if the news of her youngest brother being offered up as a sacrificial lamb in order to bring about an end to the war is the funniest thing she’s heard all day. Fenris, her dog, playfully yips at her heels as he trails after, much more grown from his puppyish state since Loki saw him last. He now comes up to Hela’s knees.

“I have plenty of things to be ashamed of,” Odin cooly responds, “one of them being a son who thinks it’s fitting to storm into a room like a child throwing a tantrum.”

Thor turns read in the face as Hela laughs, takes a seat at the dining table across from Loki, and puts her feet up onto the wood. The sharp glare from Frigga aimed at her, tells Loki that Hela will be chastised by their mother later for her unladylike conduct.

“I’m doing what’s best for Asgard,” Odin continues, pointedly swinging his gaze between Thor and Hela, “something that you and Hela could benefit from learning.”

“And the benefit of peace,” Thor hisses, slamming his hands down onto the table, “is sacrificing your youngest son?”

“No,” Odin quarrels with him, his single eye narrowing dangerously, “this benefit of peace is ensuring that for generations of Asgardian’s to come, as well as the future of the entire races of the Nine Realms, may enjoy a world where there is no more war nor strife. No more dead sons or daughters to send off to Valhalla. Just peace.” He closes his remaining eye, a hum vibrating in his chest like this had been a decision he’d been sitting on for quite some time. “And if it means marrying my youngest child off to the ruler of Sakaar to do so. I’d have done it years ago if the option was presented before me.”

Unassuaged by Odin’s words, Thor glares at Odin as Frigga sets her little spoon down, no longer interested in the small bowl of jelly and finely cut fruits flavored with rosewater that had been placed before her. She looks as if she’s close to launching herself out of her seat to stop her eldest son less he does something reckless.

Hela glances between the members of her family summons a knife into her hand with her seiðr and stabs it through a roll of bread on the table, she lifts the whole thing up to her mouth, tearing off a morsel of the loaf with her teeth. “Have any of you bothered to ask Loki how he feels about this?” She questions through a full mouth.

The question surprises Loki and nearly everyone else. Even Fenris looks surprised by the rare display of his mistress’s concern. Everyone stares at him.

He snorts and replies dryly, “Oh. I’m perfectly happy being wedded off it means father gets his precious peace.” Standing up, he leaves the dining hall, uncomfortable to be sitting there any longer where his family can talk about his fate as if he’s some cow being argued over. Trudging along through the palace halls, his feet carry him to the training yard, a row of dartboards has been set up in a small corner. Using his seiðr, Loki summons his knives to him and throws them at a dartboard until he starts to feel better.

“It’s rare of you to be in the training yard, your highness.”

Loki turns at the familiar voice, honey-sweet with rough edges that belay years of experience on the battlefield. He’s unsurprised to find that it belongs to Brunnhilde, her dark hair is parted into three braided sections and pulled back into a ponytail. Toned arms are exposed by the cream-colored dress she wears, a simple sash tied around her waist and a sword strapped to her hip. A small smile graces her face, fingers drumming against her rich skin as she arches a brow at the Asgardian royal.

He’s surprised to see her here and he says as much to her. “Shouldn’t you be off training the new Valkyrior or getting drunk on mead somewhere?”

Her rich laughter fills the courtyard, her mouth upturned as she uncrosses her arms to place her hands on her hip. “I and some of the other Valkyrie’s just returned from the front lines, I came to give Odin my report.”

“Right,” Loki huffs, turning back to the dartboard, he picks up a knife and throws it hard out of frustration at the mention of Odin’s name. It hits the target right in the center.

“Well,” she starts, “congratulations on the betrothal.”

His next throw misses the target completely, the knife bounces off of a corner and embeds itself into the ground. With a bitter laugh, he turns to stare at her. “Has all of Asgard heard of my misfortune? Or shall I get to live as an unburdened man tonight?”

Brunnhilde continues to smile at him. There’s a look of pity upon her face that sours his already terrible mood. He knows he has no right to be annoyed at her expression, but he’s already spent hours feeling nettled about the situation himself. He just doesn’t want others to pity him right now; look at him like he’s a man who’s been condemned to the gallows.

“If all of Asgard hasn’t heard about the terms of the peace treaty by now,” she informs him, “they surely will by nightfall.”

“Oh great,” Loki bemoans, “I’ll have the whole kingdom pitying me by the end of the week.”

“It could be better,” she strides over to Loki, twitches her fingers, and summons the knife that missed the dartboard into her hand, “you could have the whole kingdom hating you instead.” She tosses the knife at the board, not even looking at it. The knife embeds itself right next to the one that’s already hit the bullseye mark.

Glancing at her, Loki’s brow arches upon his face. “I already have that underway with all the tricks and mischief I’ve caused over the years.”

She continues to smile, moves her hand to the hilt of her sword, and pats it. “What do you say? Should we spar one last time before you’re shipped off?”

“You mean sent to my doom?”

Rolling her eyes, she pulls her sword out of her hilt and points the tip at him, her head cocked to the side as she silently asks _what do you say, your highness?_ He spars with her and loses quickly, he’s never been one to rely on strength alone, not like Hela or Thor. He’s used to relying on underhanded methods and tricks, intelligence over pure brawn to try and undermind his opponents, but he and Brunnhilde have spared so many times since he’s been a child that she knows him and his methods too well. They spar again and again, with each time Loki ending up on his back, covered in dirt. With one final spar, Loki lies on the courtyard ground covered in a mixture of dirt and sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to catch his breath. Brunnhilde hasn’t even worked up a sweat as she puts her sword back into its sheath and sticks a hand out to pull Loki upright. He’s being pulled to his feet just as Brunnhilde’s wife walks into the courtyard.

Hildegarde is built like a giant and tall like one too. She’s about as tall as Thor, biceps larger than a child’s skull with hair the color of spun wheat tied into an intricate braid that flows down her back. She wears a leather tunic over a homespun dress, a heavy axe is strapped to her back, the sunlight catching off of the metal weapon that Loki has never seen her part with. Sapphire eyes crinkle ever so slightly upon seeing her wife. Brunnhilde laughs with glee as Hildegarde picks her up as if she weighs nothing and spins her in a small circle, kisses her on the cheek, yet wrinkles her nose at the dirt covering her and Loki’s clothing.

“You just came back from war. You couldn’t take a break from your sword?” Setting her wife down.

Smiling, Brunnhilde smacks her wife on the arm, a flirtatious smirk stretching her lips from ear to ear. “There are other swords you and I can play with together.” Loki rolls his eyes at the two as Hildegarde laughs from the depths of her soul.

Glancing at himself, Loki frowns at the silk tunic and leather pants that are layered with a thick crust of dirt. He’s filthy and in need of a bath but flicks his gaze up when Hildegarde congratulates him on his engagement. Brunnhilde smacks her on the arm again. “Loki isn’t exactly enthusiastic about his nuptials.”

Hildegarde shrugs her shoulders. “There could be worse things.”

“Like what?” Loki snorts at her.

With a completely deadpanned face, she says, “You could be giving birth to a horse.”

Lips pressing together, Loki stares at her before erupting with laughter. Tears spill from his eyes that he quickly brushes away before bidding the two goodbye so that he can head back to his chambers for a much-needed bath. The servants are throwing dried flower petals into the bathwater as he strips himself and sinks into the water, he’s just scrubbed himself free of dirt when Hela strolls in without any warning, swipes a strip of dried meat from a tray the servants had brought in and tosses it to Fenris who snatches the meat out of the air and tears into it.

“Come to gloat? Dear sister of mine.”

“No,” the faint curve of a smile is on her lips as she tosses a casual glance at him and goes to pour herself out a cup of mead. “I can do that anytime, I’ve just come to see how you’re...handling your sudden betrothal.”

“Oh,” Loki lifts a hand out of the bath, water droplets dance across the surface of his skin, “obviously well. I’ve never been more excited in my life to be married to this every mysterious Grandmaster!”

Hela says nothing as she drains half of her goblet and takes a seat on one of the various settee in the room. Her eyes soften as she sprawls across the furniture, a look that she rarely ever has, but a tender expression that’s only ever reserved for her family on the rarest of occasions. “I know this is difficult. After all, Odin’s always been—

“—Bloodthirsty? War hungry? An old, cantankerous fool?”

“Well, all of those things.” Hela laughs into her goblet of mead. “Odin’s changing. For the better? For the worse? No one knows. But he’s changing and doing something that he believes is right.”

“And that means marrying me off?”

Hela sips on her mead once more, before remarking to Loki, “You aren’t being shipped off like some cattle that’s being lead to slaughter. You’re as much an Odinson as Thor. I know that Odin and us often butt heads, but he loves us in his own unusual way.” She frowns, eyes flicking up to stare at the ceiling, “but he’s all cuddly now, like an old, senile bear beneath that exterior he puts up.” Hela smiles at her brother, sinks further into the settee, “besides, our father would easily slit your future husband’s throat if he so much as dares to hurt you, just as easily as he would rescind his vows of peace to wage war if you were ever harmed.”

Loki laughs a low sound that rumbles out of his throat. “He won’t need to slit my future husband’s throat if he harms me.”

“Oh?” Hela glances up from admiring her nails. “Why is that?”

A dangerous fire smolders in Loki’s eyes as he addresses his sister, “Because I’ll do it first.”

By the end of the week, all of Asgard is ringing with the news of Loki’s betrothal. The Warriors Three and Lady Sif have made it a sport to tease Loki over pints of mead when they’d gathered to drag the three Asgardian royal siblings off to a local pub in the Medina, a section of the capital city that housed much of Asgard’s pubs and taverns. Lady Sif, drunkenly, had cornered him and tried to explain all of the delicacies of lovemaking between men—a conversation that had made Loki wonder how the hell Sif had even come to be imbued with such information. Annoyed by her treatment of him as if he’s some blushing virgin, which Loki is not, not with his long history and fair share of bedmates, that he knows immediately from the raucous laughter coming from the table the Warriors Three had seized that one of them, Thor or Hela has put Sif up to this.

The next morning, Odin just has to make a delightful announcement over breakfast as he’s so inclined to do. Delivering bad news with the good over a hearty breakfast so you could never determine if the bitterness in your mouth was from the food or from Odin dumping news into your lap.

“We’ll be receiving a visit from the ruler of Sakaar later in the day,” he tells them all, though the news is much more for Loki’s ears than his siblings, “to hammer out the terms of the peace agreement between the two kingdoms.”

This intrigues Loki, his first chance to meet this mysterious Grandmaster and determine what type of person he is.

Before midday, the Grandmaster comes to the Asgardian Palace. He’s tall, a good foot more than Loki’s frame of 6’4”. His brown eyes are warm, yet flicker with a playful fire and are rimmed with black kohl. A single blue stripe of electric blue is painted from his lower lip to his jaw, his nails are painted the same color of electric blue. He sports a gold robe over a robin blue tunic, red embroiders the robe, and matches the sash that’s tied around his waist. A silver pair of pants complete the ensemble. His manner of dressing while strange seems to fit his peculiar idiosyncrasy. He’s charming and aloof in a way that makes it difficult to discern his age and difficult to know much about him. It’s as if he enjoys making people chase after him more.

“Grandmaster,” Odin dips his head toward the man in greeting, his scepter knocking against the tiles of the throne room as he approaches the man. “My wife, Frigga,” he jerks his scepter in the direction of the goddess. “My son, Thor.” Thor’s arms are crossed tightly in front of himself, mouth set into a firm expression as he sizes the Grandmaster up. “My daughter, Hela.” The grin splitting Hela’s face in half is utterly terrifying but the Grandmaster doesn’t seem fazed by it. “And Loki, my child who is both and oft neither.”

The Grandmaster stares at him, the light in his eyes flickering ever so slightly as he reaches out, grasps Loki’s hand in his own, and presses a gentle kiss to the skin. “The pleasure of meeting you is all mine.”

Hela makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat that earns her a swift kick to the ankle from their mother. Odin and the Grandmaster, who is accompanied by the head of his guard, Topaz, head off to discuss the terms of the peace agreement. A few hours after noon, Loki slips out of his chambers, walking through the halls of the palace, he passes by the garden, spying Frigga taking a leisurely stroll amongst the blooming flowers and ferns. He tears his gaze away from her, keeping his head pointed and swiftly walking past only to be stopped in his tracks by his mother’s voice.

“Loki Odinson. Don’t.”

Spinning on his heels, he plasters a smile onto his face and walks into the garden as Frigga dismisses her handmaidens with a wave of her hand. The handmaidens bow and quickly scramble away, leaving the two of them alone.

“Why mother,” Loki presses a hand against his chest, putting on angelic airs despite being no angel. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Frigga scoffs at him. “Loki, while I may not have born you from my own body, I’ve let you suckle from my breast and taught you the arts of the coven who raised me and taught me their ways. You may as well be the other half of my heart. I know you well, Loki Odinson, and I know what you’re planning on doing.”

Batting his eyelashes at her, Loki laces his fingers together as if he can do no wrong. “Mother, I was simply planning to head to the library and read a little before retiring to bed.”

“Loki—” Frigga’s mouth worms itself into a flat line as she watches her youngest child raise his hand, snap his fingers and dissolve his illusion in an array of golden, shimmering light.

Across the palace, Loki is in the hall, watching a servant carrying a tray of wine toward a gold door that houses the war room. He follows after her, cloaked invisible through the use of his seiðr. Slipping in after the servant pushes the door open before her, Loki spies the Grandmaster and Odin seated at a circular wooden table. On its surface, a map of the Nine Realms has been burned onto its surface. Lifting the pitcher of wine off of the tray, the servant refills their empty goblets and leaves.

“So you’re agreeing to the terms?” Odin asks the ruler of Sakaar.

The Grandmaster cocks his head to the side, taps his long, thin fingers against his jaw. “Well...yes and no.” He points at Odin, the faint ghost of a smile splayed upon his lips. “I’m agreeing to them, but I’m not a huge fan of forcing people to do things without their, ah, what do you call it?” He rolls his wrist, brows pinched together as he searches for the word. “Consent.” He smiles at Odin, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “Maybe we should ask the youngest prince of Asgard about it first.”

Loki doesn’t know how he does it, all he knows is that he feels the edges of his magic, of his seiðr being tugged at. Like when one finds the edge of a frayed thread and tugs at it, he can feel foreign fingers tugging at him, and then he’s standing in the war room visible; standing there shocked as if Odin and the Grandmaster had just walked in on him naked.

“How—?”

The Grandmaster wiggles his long fingers. “A magician never reveals his secret. But I’m so glad you’re here.” Pressing his fingers together to form a steeple, the Grandmaster glances at Odin. “Odin and I were just having a discussion about you. Tell me Loki, are you fond of playing games?”

“Playing games?” Loki’s brows shoot up, uncertain of just what exactly is going on.

“Yes,” the Grandmaster’s lips curl back to show his sparkling white teeth, “I’m quite...skilled at games. Love all sorts of them. So I was wondering if you’d be interested in playing.”

Loki doesn’t understand him; doesn’t understand how he thinks, much less what his goals are.

“What are your terms?” He finally asks, not one to say no to a challenge.

The Grandmaster seems delighted at that as he resumes tapping his chin. Pointing at Loki, he says, “One game; one round. If you win, well, you get whatever you want so long as it’s within my power to grant it. If I win, then I get what I want.”

 _Interesting_.

“And if my desire is to make this impending marriage null?”

“I’m a man of my honor.” The Grandmaster splays a hand against his chest, “I always fulfill my opponent’s requests...so long as they win.”

Loki agrees to the Grandmaster’s terms, watches the man lift his hand and wave it over the table, the long sleeves of his robe fluttering with the movement. A chessboard appears on the table, the pieces seem familiar to Loki. Once he approaches the table he realizes its Asgardian chess and smirks. He has no clue what the Grandmaster is thinking as he sits down on the opposite side of him and begins to play against him.

He has the upper hand, after all, Asgardian chess had been taught to him since the moment he could speak a single word as a babe. He thinks he’s close to winning, of course, moving his king before the Grandmaster’s serpent, but that smile that he had worn on his face is quickly wiped off when the man wipes the floor with him using only the few pieces he has remaining. A cold shiver claws its way up his back, bony fingers caressing the knobs of his spine. The sudden feeling makes him grow leery that he hadn’t been winning from the start, that instead he had been secretly coaxed into playing into the Grandmaster’s hand. As if each push and pull of the pieces he’d moved had simply been doing what the Grandmaster had expected of him and resulted in him losing.

Gazing at the Grandmaster’s face, the man’s features are smooth, unabashed in a way as if his win had been a stroke of good luck. Eyes the color of freshly made syrup glance up at Loki, observing him and his reaction. This man unnerves him, Loki decides, in so many different ways. Offering his hand out to Loki, the Asgardian prince lifts his hand and slips it into the Grandmaster’s own. Bringing Loki’s hand up to his lips, the Grandmaster places a chaste kiss against his cool skin.

“It seems I won,” the Grandmaster’s deep voice rumbles.

Irritation bleeds into Loki’s words, “It seems so. Name your terms and I’ll fulfill them.”

“Ah,” the Grandmaster smiles as if Loki hasn’t quite understood a joke someone delivered, “well, my terms are already getting fulfilled.”

Loki’s eyes narrow, nose wrinkling from ambiguity. “What?” The word is crisp and short, like a whip cracking in the air.

“You see,” the Grandmaster continues, tossing a glance in Odin’s direction before his gaze swings back to Loki. “Odin and I had a rather interesting discussion. Seemed your old man here knew you were going to show up. Had an inkling from his missing eye here. Which, quite interesting really—a very interesting story he told me about it. But that’s beside the point. My terms were that if I won the game, Odin here would be willing to marry you off to me.”

The smile on Loki’s face turns deadly, a smile that seems to make his eyes glint with a murderous rage that makes him want to transform into some inhuman beast that spits venom that melts flesh from bone.

“What about the peace treaty?” Loki calmly asks, mouth still split apart. “Wasn’t my hand in marriage a negotiable term for bringing about the end of this war?”

The Grandmaster seems truly stunned at that, boisterous laughter spills from his lips as easily as the wine that threatens to spill from the shaking goblet in his hand. “Oh, that’s a funny joke!” He looks at Odin, points a finger at the youngest prince of Asgard. “You should have told me he was a jokester besides being so attractive.”

Loki can’t help the flush that spills across his cheeks; droplets of wine spilled into fresh cream. The Grandmaster stares at him, eyes half-lidded with intrigue and desire burning in them after acknowledging Loki as attractive.

“No,” the Grandmaster addresses him, “war is, ah, how can I say this? Entertaining when it isn’t old. But this one’s been dragging on for quite some time and I’m not very much interested in it anymore. I was going to call for peace anyway. Having your hand in marriage was never a part of it, not at least until now when we played this game.

Loki’s smile grows wider and deadlier as he glances at Odin who raises his own goblet to his lips, his single eye staring off into the distance as if he had no care in the world.

He decides he’s going to kill Odin. Even if it’s the last thing he does before the guards come to throw him into the dungeons. He’s going to skewer Odin on his knives until blood drips down his hands.

Yes, Loki decides. 

He’s going to kill Odin with his own two hands.


	2. Golden Apples

Loki’s pissed.

To say he’s pissed is an even greater understatement of the very word as he finds himself storming into the dining hall, ignoring all decorum and manner as he trudges his way toward the dining table, eyes constricted so heavily that they give him a serpentine quality, his voice dripping with venom when he hisses at Odin.

“How dare you!”

Unbothered by the intensity of Loki’s ire, Odin cuts into his sausage as if this is merely an average day in the Asgardian royal household. That only serves to incense Loki even more, his fingers itch, the brief thought of summoning his daggers with his seiðr briefly flickers across his mind.

“Loki,” Frigga’s tone is as cold as Jotunheim itself, her eyes flicker to the empty seat beside her, a silent plea for him to take his place and eat breakfast without any fanfare or threats of bloodshed.

“No!” Loki hisses, turning his gaze upon his mother, spittle flies from his lips, “did dear old Dad here not even bother to inform you that marriage wasn’t even a part of the peace agreement in the first place. The Grandmaster never needed my hand to end this war he was going to do it regardless.”

“Odin.” The King of Asgard’s name is but a mere whisper on his wife’s lips, the ground beneath their feet shakes and trembles, the cutlery and goblets that grace the top of the dining table shake with Frigga’s subdued fury. Her fury is tenfold compared to the look of rage upon Thor’s face; Hela, however, seems delighted by this sudden carnival of chaos, wrenching her goblet of mead off of the table before it can even spill, she raises it in Loki’s direction as if to thank him for bringing her entertainment during her morning meal. Goblets spill upon the table, their contents seeping out onto the rich wood. The chandeliers above their heads rattle dangerously as if they’ll come down upon all of their heads without a moment’s notice.

“Frigga, control your anger.” With his single eye, Odin stares at his wife, his knife and fork slicing through a small mountain of fried eggs. The only one amongst them still eating despite Frigga’s anger threatening to bring down the palace around them.

“Control my anger!” She hisses, her beautiful features warped with the refined anger of a pissed off mother. “Odin Borson! Why did you never tell me about this!?”

Setting his knife and fork down on either side of his plate, a heavy sigh rips itself from Odin’s chest. “Wife, I know your heart.” Frigga’s lips glue themselves together and drain themselves of their rosy gloss. “You’re tenderhearted, even in situations where it requires you to temper it. You would never have agreed to this.”

“And I don’t!” Frigga’s chair scraps as she bolts up from it, peering down at Odin with a strength that’s unceasing. The shaking of the room seems to grow stronger; strong enough that Loki has to grip the table to balance himself, although it does little good.

“What’s done is done.” The heat of Odin’s gaze sweeps over his wife and all of his children. “Loki and the Grandmaster have made their choices.”

Loki’s cheeks burn with rage. He knows Odin is right. He, himself, had set the terms of the game that he and the Grandmaster had played without knowing all of the cards that had been laid out before him. Fingers still twitching, the urge to throw a knife at Odin’s neck doesn’t abate itself. The shaking of the room subsides, with a huff of hot air, Frigga seats herself back in her chair just as the Grandmaster strolls in with his guard, Topaz, his hands are clasped behind him as he observes the whole room with a smile plastered on his face. His eyes taking in the food that litters the floor that servants hastily attempt to clean up, the spilled mead and wine that colors the dining table, some childlike imitation of fine art. 

“Oh boy,” the Grandmaster’s voice rumbles in the hollow of his throat, “seems like dining with the whole family is always so rambunctious in the mornings.”

“Not always,” Hela cackles, pausing in her amusement to sip upon her full goblet.

“Grandmaster,” Odin implores, rising from his seat to at least put on a display of decorum amongst the chaos of breakfast, “please dine with us.”

“Loki,” Frigga’s eyes burn through him as the Grandmaster takes the empty seat beside her, “won’t you sit?”

He takes one good look at the Grandmaster and feels his stomach twist with ire inside of him. “No thank you,” his words are sharp like knives as they leave his tongue, “I find my appetite already spoiled.” He doesn’t say anything more, knows that his rage at being tricked the night before is still simmering inside of him. He’s about to storm off before Odin stops him with a few sweet words that just rub the salt in his already festering wounds.

“Loki, the wedding is to be held on Friday.”

“Perfect,” he hisses, the single word grinding itself against his teeth as he storms out of the dining hall.  _ Just a few bittersweet days of freedom left _ , he finds himself thinking as he marches out in a whirlwind of forest green silks and black threads.

Avoiding his family and by extension, avoiding the Grandmaster for the next few days Loki spends much of his time in his bedchamber, drinking down whole bottles of mead and wine as the days sickeningly tick by the closer his wedding—or as he liked to think of it, his execution date. So avoids them all, avoids going to the dining hall to eat with his family, and instead has servants bring his meals to him. That is until Frigga storms into his bedchambers one evening, fury upon her face as she drags him out by his ankles and her seiðr to come and eat with the rest of his family while ordering the servants to let him starve instead of bringing him his meals.

Which, he finds cruel if he wasn’t impressed by her conviction.

The servants have already started to pack up his belongings in preparation for his journey after the wedding. He’s heard from Thor and Hela that their maternal family is traveling from Vanir to Asgard and should arrive a few days before the wedding.

He’s dreading the whole experience, really. Thinks about how easy it might just be to send an illusion to get married in his place while he sneaks out of the palace, but he has honor enough to know that’s a bad idea as Odin would just drag him back and throw him in the dungeons or implement some plan to prevent Loki from escaping.

But honor isn’t enough to keep Loki from trying one night as he slips a bag full of provisions and money over his head. It’s the dead of the night, hardly a mouse is stirring as he glances back at his bed to find his carefully crafted illusion sleeping soundly beneath the silk sheets. It’s perfect, a near carbon copy of himself to take his place. He pushes the door of his bedchamber open ever so slowly and curses as he takes a step out and spies the two guards with knowledge of seiðr posted on either side of the door.

“That cunning fucking bastard,” he grumbles, slamming the door shut.

At breakfast, Loki is dragged out of his room by Hela—he knows Frigga has forced both of his siblings to accompany him to all of his meals, firstly to ensure that he doesn’t attempt to escape and secondly she threatened them to do it. Hela laughs at his misfortune of having guards posted outside of his chambers as they walk through the palace halls.

“Odin’s really thought of it all,” her cackles are loud and bounce off of the walls as Fenris sticks close to Loki’s heels, brushing his fur against the god’s ankles as if to ease some of his annoyance out of him.

“At least Fenris is the only one who seems sympathetic to my plight.” He sniffs, bending down to scratch at the fur behind the dog’s ear.

With a roll of her eyes and an arch of her brow, Hela continues to laugh at him. “Fenris is just hoping you’ll feed him scraps from your plate.”

The dining hall doors open upon their presence to see the Grandmaster already charming Frigga, her skin pinky with a rosy flush and the corners of her mouth crinkled as if she’s spent much of the morning laughing already. He’s surprised to find Brunnhilde and Hildegarde dining with them as well.

Leaning close to his sister, he asks her, “What’s this occasion about?”

“If you weren’t sulking in your chambers, you’d already know that Odin has announced Brunnhilde and Hildegard are to accompany you on your journey to Sakaar to ensure you arrive in one piece.”

Sweeping into the room, Loki takes the empty seat between Thor and Brunnhilde as Hela seats herself on the other side of the Grandmaster.

The Grandmaster’s lips are parted with laughter as he beguiles Odin and Frigga with a tale. “I was just telling Topaz here how lovely this place is,” he swings his hands apart wildly as he speaks, gesturing around at the opulence of the palace. “How lovely the Asgardian people are. I thought Sakaaran’s could party, but oh boy! Especially this one—” He points a finger at Brunnhilde who’s chin is resting in the palm of her hand, “—this one, drunk me underneath a table. Almost couldn’t stand by the end of the time. She’s something else. Topaz,” he glances at his guard, who stands as still as a stone statue behind him, “what was the word I used before to describe her?”

Topaz’s face is stolid as she replies, “A boozy hag?”

Loki all but inhales his wine by her shocking bluntness. Brunnhilde, seemingly used to Topaz’s demeanor by the Grandmaster’s tale of her having out drunk him in a competition—which Loki has so many questions about—seems unfazed by her slanderous remark. He’s surprised by Topaz’s willingness to say such a thing; if any of the Asgard’s servants had dared to even say such a thing they’d be struck down by Odin in the court. But he watches the Grandmaster turn towards her, mouth half open as he blinks at her a couple of times, as if wondering where she even came from.

“What? No?” He frowns, jerking his head back sharply, “why—how? That’s not even the word I was looking for,” as if he suddenly remembered it, he snaps his fingers together, quickly turning around to shake a finger in Brunnhilde’s direction. “It was amazing. That’s what she was.” He scowls, turning again to look at Topaz. “How did you even get boozy hag from aamazing?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Loki watches the stoneyfaced woman glare at Brunnhilde who smugly waves her fingers in the guard’s direction. He wonders what sort of thing happened during the night the Grandmaster and Brunnhilde were drinking together for her and Topaz to be so antagonistic between each other.

“Loki,” Frigga speaks up, her warm gaze settled upon her youngest son, “I’d like to take a walk with you in the garden to speak about details regarding your wedding.”

Grunting back a response, Loki wishes he didn’t have to; he doesn’t want to think or be reminded about the wedding at all. But after breakfast, he ends up leaving the hall with his arm looped through his mother’s. They head out to the palace gardens, a decadent and artful display of fauna and ferns. Passing by a row of tea roses that line an artificial pond, Loki distracts himself by the baby ducks that float idly within its waters as Frigga questions him about his choice of wedding colors, food, drinks, and other minute wedding details that need to be hammered out until he’s bored out of his mind and just nods his head along with her suggestions.

Noticing that Loki is nowhere near interested to continue talking about the wedding, they come to a stop in front of a carved marble bench and sit down upon it. Reaching out, Frigga cups her son’s cheek with her warm palm.

“I know you’re not keen on this wedding and marriage, Loki.” Her words are gentle, full of motherly love.

“I’m not,” he replies bitterly and for once in his life truthfully.

Frigga lets her hand drop from his cheek in order to grasp his hand. “I wasn’t that way too when I first married Odin. But now I love him as deeply as I love you, Thor and Hela. Take this piece of advice with you and use it how you see fit. But marriage and love is work; whatever you put into it is what you’ll get out of it. If you don’t put any effort into loving your partner then you will never know love in return. However, if you work on your love as much as you do, say your illusions then you will reap its benefits.”

Loki stares at his mother, stares into the depths of her eyes, and sees years of wisdom and love there. Pressing his lips together, he sighs like a child that’s been chastised. “I’ll try,” he promises her, “but do not hold me to my words.”

A smile graces Frigga’s features that quickly grows larger upon her face the instant Loki hears a throat clearing behind them.

Twisting his torso, Loki’s eyes warm with surprise as his maternal grandfather, Freyr, peers down at him, his arms thrown open wide and ready for a hug.

“I can’t believe my youngest grandson is being married off!” His voice is warm and rich, like freshly brewed mead right out of the barrel.

With a laugh, Loki leaps up to his feet and hugs him, the edges of his grandfather’s long moustache tickling his cheeks, his long beard grey beard reaching his chest and his hair pulled back into a ponytail. Pulling back as the scent of his grandfather’s seiðr tinges the air—it’s the scent of freshly reaped wheat and barley, the scent of harvest and bounty. In Freyr’s outstretched fingers, a ripe plum appears. It’s Loki’s favorite fruit that he quickly hands off to the God of myths.

Biting into it, rich juice spills down Loki’s chin and he finds himself grateful for the fruits sweet taste.

“Are Gullveig and Idunn already here?” Frigga asks.

Freyr fixes her with a haggard look. “They wouldn’t miss Loki’s wedding even if the dwarves crafted golden chains to ensnare them. They nearly drove the poor horses to collapse just trying to get here as quickly as they could. Your poor mother spent hours scolding them.”

A bark of laughter tears itself from Frigga’s throat. “I’ll make sure the servants tend to the horses. I suppose I should go look for them.” She spins on her heels to go give the servants an order to care for her the newly arrived horses and to find her sisters before they cause too much trouble, but she pauses and turns, a sharp look upon her face that’s aimed at Loki. “Be sure to make an appearance at lunch and dinner or else I’ll have the guards drag you there by your feet.”

With that said, she leaves him and her father alone in the gardens.

“So,” Freyr reaches up to stroke his beard, “I’ve heard that you aren’t delighted by this marriage of yours.”

“Not one bit,” Loki curtly responds before biting into the flesh of the plum, juices dribble down the side of his thumb, “please don’t give me a lecture about it, I’ve already suffered one just now from mother.”

“Well,” Freyr hums, stumped, “I believe there’s not much more for me to say that my daughter already hasn’t.” His eyes seem to twinkle as he pauses in stroking his beard. “Although, I could tell you the time your mother was nervous about her own marriage and Odin had to fight for her hand on three different occasions, but I shouldn’t.”

“What!?” The plum hovers just inches from Loki’s mouth, juice dripping down his skin as intrigue coats his throat. “Grandfather, you have to tell the story now.”

With a knowing smile, Freyr sits upon the marble bench and pats the empty seat beside him and waits for Loki to sit down before telling the story. “It was years ago, Odin had heard of a powerful woman Vanir woman trained by a powerful coven of witches, seeking to unite the Aesir and the Vanir with a union of marriage he sought her out and instead had to face her sister and her aunt in a duel before facing your mother. Oh the heavens shook that day, fissures opened in the ground, the sky wept, and finally when it was all over the skalds weaved poems of that day and my daughter and Odin were wed within a week.”

The story makes laughter bubble to Loki’s lip, the plum now finished he tosses the pit of it away and wipes his hand clean with his own seiðr. “As much as Hela and Thor are thirsty for a good fight on any day, I doubt they’d risk their lives calling for a duel against the Grandmaster in the same fashion.”

“You never know,” Freyr hums amusedly, “family will always be willing to stand behind you, especially when it comes to your marriage.”

Soothed over his mother and grandfather’s words, Loki makes an apperance at lunch and dinner. The prospect of his wedding a little less prison-like than how he’d viewed it. There’s plenty of preparations to be had before the wedding with Thor and Hela accompanying him to their ancestors’ vault in order to steal a sword for the wedding rituals.

Two days before the wedding, he has a bridal fitting for his dress. Frigga pushes herself into his chambers and pauses, her eyes already shimmering with threats of tears upon seeing him in a mock dress that the seamstress had quickly crafted.

“Don’t start crying,” Loki huffs as the seamstress whisks the dress away.

“Come on a walk with me?” She suggests, motioning with her head to the halls of the palace.

Following her out of his own bedchamber, they return to the gardens. It’s spring, the breeze is gentle and rustles the leaves of a copse of trees that provide shade within the garden.

“Do you remember when you were younger and we oft went on walks to the meadows so I could teach you magic?” A fond smile graces Frigga’s lips as her fingers twist in the chain of the necklace draped around her neck.

“Ha,” Loki scoffs, lips twisting into a grin, “I remember them fondly. I also remember all the times Thor would try to tag along.”

Frigga starts to laugh, her teeth dazzlingly white beneath the bright spring sun. “And how on more than one occasion you transformed into a snake and stabbed your brother?”

Loki’s laughter joins her own, creating a harmonious melody as the two continue to walk, they come to that little pond in the middle of the garden. The mother duck is there, idly swimming across the surface of the lake as her little ducklings stick close to her. A forlorn smile plasters itself upon Frigga’s face as she watches them.

“I know that the circumstances you find yourself in are one that you wish you weren’t—”

“Mother,” Loki shakes his head, cutting her off. “I’ve settled on accepting my fate. Even if it’s one that I was manipulated into making.”

“Hold no ill will against Odin,” she warns him.

“I’ll attempt to heed that advice,” he replies dryly, “since it’s so close to my impending doom I’d rather dwell on the good moments rather than finding ways to behead Odin.”

“Come,” Frigga claps her hands together, “let’s not focus on the bitter memories, but rather what we can look forward to.” Snapping her fingers together, she summons a wrapped package upon her lap.

The juniper green wrapping paper mesmerizes his eyes as Frigga reaches out and caresses his cheek with a single thumb. “Loki, my child; my heart.” Tears shimmer along the surface of her eyes. “You and your siblings have been the greatest gifts bestowed upon me. And for that, I have a gift to share with you.”

She places the package in his lap, he stares at it, his eyes glittering with amusement as he gently reaches out to touch it.

“What is it?” He inquires.

“It’s a gift,” Frigga reaches out and gently presses her fingers against the wrapping paper, “usually it is a tradition passed down from mother to daughter, but, Loki—” she lifts her fingers away from the paper to touch his cheek and strokes it with her thumb, “—my beautiful son, my dashing daughter, my child who is both and ofttimes neither. I wanted you to have something from me to adorn your bridal garment with. Go on open it.”

Slowly unwrapping the paper from around the gift, Loki’s eyes widen as he reveals a gold sash with hand-embroidered details upon it, green snakes glitter upon the material, framed by beautiful silver flowers and bushels of mistletoe. Tears drip upon the back of his hand as Loki glances up at his mother.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers, long fingers dancing against the thread of the sash as if he can’t believe it’s real. “You didn’t have to do this for me—I’m not even of your blood.”

“Loki,” Frigga’s lips twist with a gentle whisper that’s as soft as rain, “you are of my body just as much as Thor and Hela are. So, accept this gift, from a mother to her child.”

“Thank you,” the words twist from the depths of his heart as Frigga wipes away his tears with her thumbs.

“Come,” Frigga shakes her head, her long braid brushing against her back, “let no more tears spill in the days leading up to your wedding, it serves as a ill omen for such a joyous occassion. Promise me, Loki, that you’ll try in this marriage. That one day you’ll open your heart up to your husband as I am sure he will with you.”

“I promise this to you.”

“And Loki?” A bemused smile graces Frigga’s features as his name curves with a question.

“Yes, mother?”

With a bemused, yet knowing sigh she tells him, “Try not to stab your husband on the wedding night.”

A sharp snort peels itself away from him. “I can keep my promises but that one I am unsure of.”

Together, they walk to dinner where Loki sits tucked between his two maternal aunts. Dinner is a rich spread of roast meats, rich breads, and vegetables roasted with honey butter. Glancing up at the jostle of his shoulder in order to catch his attention, Loki’s eyes connect with his youngest aunt. A smile stretches across his aunt Gullveig’s lips as she motions with her eyes to those seated across the table.

A slight frown causes Loki’s lips to curve at the end, the fork that’s clenched between his lips is pulled out ever so slightly as he follows her gaze to where the Grandmaster sits. His dark eyes burn with a hunger to them that’s directed to where Loki sits, his cheeks immediately flush with color, his thoughts twisting to what events shall occur on their wedding night that he has pushed deeply into the corners of his mind.

He realizes, that he hasn’t put much thought into where the Grandmaster will be staying after their nuptials. Will he return to his own chambers or does he plan on returning to Loki’s? The thought makes his pale cheeks flush even harder until they’re as red as ripe apples.

“So, Loki.” Loki’s great-aunt Idunn speaks, her richly painted lips match the color of Loki’s blush. The playful smirk and the mischievous glint that burns in her eyes make her seem like chaos itself had taken to human form. Her hair glitters like spun gold in the light of the dining hall. “Have you given any thoughts to the fun you and your wedded to be shall be engaging in on your wedding night?”

Gullveig leans in close to him. “Yes, Loki, have you managed to see your husband’s  _ little _ sword?” She crooks her pinkie at him and wiggles it.

A chuckle rumbles deep within his chest, “I’m not having this conversation,” Loki tells her, “as much as I know both of you will attempt to try.”

“You know, Loki,” Iddun’s smile curves even greater upon her face, “I heard his little sword isn’t quite so little, Loki, if you need any tips for your wedding night—”

“I don’t need any,” he curtly tells them, rising from his chair as he does so, “as there shan’t be anything occurring on my wedding night save for a murder.”

The moment he leaves, Frigga senses that her sister and aunt are partly behind it, rushing over to them, her brow is sharply arched above her eye. “What have you two done now?”

“Nothing,” Idunn laughs, “just some friendly family teasing.”

“Well save the teasing for the wedding!” She huffs, turning away on her heels.

Returning to his bedchamber, Loki pushes the doors open to reveal a bare room, almost all of his things packed away into trunks that were to be boarded onto the ship that takes him to Sakaar.

Walking across the room, he lightly walks up the steps leading into the inner chamber, there on a nightstand near the bed rests the sash Frigga has given him, a gold bracelet of two intertwined snakes, their eyes inlaid with precious emeralds given to him by Odin rests there as well. And hanging upon one of the walls is his wedding dress, it’s long coming down to his ankles, gold embroidery is woven through the delicate lace and chiffon. The gold details with fit well with the jewelry and sash he’ll wear for the wedding.

Sighing, he goes to the bed and sinks down onto the forest green silk as he stares at the ceiling. His bedchamber doors crash open not a moment later causing him to sigh heavily through his nose knowing it’s none other than Thor who bursts in with his obnoxiously loud laughter and heavy footsteps. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Loki’s lips part to tell Thor he’s in no mood for company tonight, but whatever words had woven themselves onto his tongue die and leave behind ash. His mouth is still open when infectious laughter bubbles out of him upon seeing Thor’s long, illustrious locks shorn from his head, leaving him with short hair cropped close to his scalp.

Thor frowns at his brother’s reaction. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you had to undergo the same level of torture that mother has inflicted upon me.”

“Oh, pray tell,” Loki rolls his eyes at his brother, “what has our lovely mother done to you?”

Thor still frowning, runs a hand through his shorn hair. “She said I needed to look presentable for your wedding.”

That causes Loki to laugh even harder. “Well, I hope mother was wise enough to be the one to take a pair of scissors to your head.”

A threnetic caul drapes itself over Thor’s face, his voice is thick with sorrow as he replies, “She was.”

Loki’s laughter is boistered by this fact. Enough so that Thor’s frown deepens and only disappears when his eyes momentarily flicker to Loki’s wedding dress. He says nothing at first, simply sinks down upon the ottoman at the foot of Loki’s bed, and stares at him.

“How are you?”

Loki blinks at the question, surprise coloring his face. “How am I? You’re never one to make small talk about things, Thor, so out with what it is you truly want to say.”

“You’re to be married off in two days’ time and yet I’ve seen you tamed as if you’d been a wild mare. I haven’t once seen you point the tip of your knife at father’s neck.”

“Oh, trust me, brother,” Loki scoffs, “I’ve thought about it more than once these past few days.”

Thor shakes his head as if he can’t understand Loki’s thoughts, “Then tell me, brother, do you still want to go through with this? Hela and I can confront father about this, tell him to call off the wedding.”

Loki cocks an eyebrow at him. “And what shall you do, Thor, when father tells you that he won’t? After all, I am the one who made the decision.”

“Through trickery and deceit!” Thor barks, reminding Loki very well how his current circumstances had come to be.

“Nonetheless,” Loki replies cooly, “Odin will argue that I made my choice despite not knowing the cards that lay before me...that is one thing I, unfortunately, will have to agree with the old codger about.”

“Still, what madness has possessed you to go through with this? You know nothing about the man.”

“No one knows anything about him, brother,” Loki sighs, picks at the edges of his tunic, “not one word in the thousands of tomes we have in the library that speak of fallen gods, civilizations and secrets abound amongst the nine realms and the whole world, yet not one mentions who the Grandmaster is, what his true name is, less anything about where he came from.”

“All that and you’re still willing to go through with this wedding?”

With an arched brow, Loki asks, “Would you find me mad if I said yes?”

Defeated, Thor cracks a smile. “Yes, yes I would.”

“So, why are you in my bedchamber? Aside from coming to be a nuisance to me of course.”

Thor looking as excited as a puppy being offered a bone to snack upon stands up. “Hela sent me to fetch you.”

“Fetch me for what?” Loki asks as Thor comes over to him, lifts him up with much struggle on Loki’s part and tosses the god over his shoulder. “Thor! By the Norns what do you think you’re doing!?”

Thor ignores him as he heads out of the inner chamber to the outer, he ignores the doors heading out into the halls of the palace and instead makes his way to the balcony. “Hold still, brother, or else you’ll fall to your death.” Loki goes still as a statue as Thor pushes the balcony doors open, slips Mjolnir out of its holster, spins it in his hand, and allows himself and Loki to be sent careening off of the balcony’s ledge and into the sky. They fly to the edges of the capital city, landing in the Medina district, where all of the capital’s bars and pubs are housed.

When they land, Loki glares at his brother. “If you wanted to drink with me, brother, there was no need to drag me all the way to Medina.”

“You won’t be saying that once you’ve seen why I dragged you here,” Thor replies cryptically as he leads Loki to a nondescript bar, lit up by warm lights. Pushing the door open, Thor reveals to him a crowded bar, a group of people tucked into a corner rises upon seeing the two princes. Loki sweeps his eyes over the table, finding Hela there along with the Warrior Three and Lady Sif.

Lifting her goblet toward her brothers, Hela shouts for the entirety of the bar to hear, “To Loki’s last night as a blushing maiden!”

The bar joins the table in a cheer and jostling cries of “aye!” fill the bar. Loki and Thor walk over to the table where Hela and the rest of their group are seated. He huffs at his sister. “I haven’t been a blushing maiden since I was 1,125 years old, sister.”

Hela says nothing by the smirk on her face as she lifts her goblet to her lips. With a shoulder, Loki gestures at the crowded pub. “What’s all this for?”

“Why of course,” setting her goblet down with a heavy  _ thunk _ , Hela tells him, “this is all to celebrate you being tarted up and shipped off to Sakaar before the sun so much as rises on the day after your wedding.” A devilish grin pulls at her lips, “speaking of your wedding, you must have some nerves surrounding it.”

“Like what?” Loki’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at her, knowing she’s planned something. A barmaid flagged down by Lady Sif brings their table a fresh round of mugs of ale.

“You know,” Hela lets her shoulders raise a few inches before dropping down, “you must have some...concerns surrounding your husband’s spear, he seems so old are you sure it even works?” She lifts a dark eyebrow at him, the assorted warriors at the table chuckle into their mugs. 

With a smile on his lips, Loki lifts his own drink and sips upon it. “You’re beginning to sound like our aunts, Hela, maybe you should take a repireve in the forests, bath in the sun, your skin after all is looking a little...exanimate.”

The table erupts with laughter as Hela playfully glares at him. “Why don’t you say that when you’re facing down the tip of my sword?”

“That short little thing?” Loki chuckles, mouth twisting with mirth, “I think I’ll have a better chance of seeing the Grandmaster’s sword with my own two eyes rather than that puny thing you keep strapped to your waist.”

The whole table erupts with laughter louder than ever before. They keep drinking until Volstagg claps Loki on the back. “We’ll miss you, Loki, you may have been a crafter of lies, but by the Norns, we will miss you.” Fat tears roll down his cheeks and disappear into his thick beard. “Especially the girls,” he says, referring to his triplet of daughters who have taken to Loki like glue since their birth. “They’ll miss having someone to roughhouse with.”

Loki’s brows arch highly on his face, nearly getting lost into his hairline. “You call what your girls do roughhousing? They threw me into the river and I was nearly swept away!” Laughter grips their group again. “It’s not like I’m going to be held prisoner on Sakaar, I’m sure the Grandmaster will let me come and go as I please.”

Lady Sif leans forward, an arm braced against the table. “And if he doesn’t?”

Sniffing, Loki turns his nose up at her, “Then our marital bed shall be christened with blood.”

A bark of laughter rips itself from Thor as he smacks his hand against the table. They drink and drink until the table itself is covered in mugs of empty mead and goblets of mead. Making mentions of going up to the bar to order more drinks as well as food after several rounds of drinking, the others give Loki their requests as he leaves the table and heads to the bar. Reacing it, Loki flags down a bartender and gives her his large order and waits, tensing slightly with a delayed reaction from all the alcohol running through his veins when an arm slips around his waist and a set of warm lips brush against the shell of his ear.

His fingers twitch as he considers summoning a knife.

“Now,” a deep voice rumbles in the hollow of his ear, “what’s a pretty little thing like you doing here rather than keeping hidden away in the castle?”

Forcing himself to relax, he lets a smile slip onto his lips and twists his torso around to see the Grandmaster standing behind him. “Grandmaster, it’s a surprise to see you here.”

His eyes flicker to a table close to the bar where the Grandmaster’s guard, Topaz, along with Brunnhilde and Hildegarde are seated. Brunnhilde unwraps her hand from around her mug and waves at him.

“Oh, why?” The Grandmaster’s eyes widen slightly with genuine surprise. He glances back at the table he just came from and then at Loki. “Because you didn’t expect to see me here or because your brother—ah, no, your sister—oh wait, both of them conspired to sneak you out of the castle to have a little fun before the wedding?”

Loki stares at him, his tongue still in his mouth as he tries to understand the man before him, much less how he could have known everything he just said. Chuckling, more so to himself, the Grandmaster reaches up, his thumb playfully tugging at Loki’s lower lip.

“Don’t tell me some pretty little cat’s stolen your tongue.”

Slipping into his flattering mode of mind, Loki’s lips curve into the biggest grin he can muster. “Grandmaster, you just happened to catch me off guard is all—”

“Don’t worry about all that,” he flaps his hand at Loki and winks at him, “I won’t, ah, inform the guards you were roaming out and about or anything.”

Loki doesn’t get him; doesn’t understand why he wouldn’t say anything. As if he read his thoughts, the Grandmaster speaks up. “Ah, I was young once, I know how rowdy one can be when they’re cooped up all the time and about to make big life decisions.”

Layering on the charm, Loki bats his eyelashes at the leader of Sakaar. His eyes rake up and down the man’s body before settling upon his face. “I’m quite used to making  _ big _ decisions.”

For the first time since he’s met him, the Grandmaster is stunned and finally quiet. His cheeks are rosy from drinking for whoever knows how long, his hand that’s wrapped around Loki’s waist remains there, but his thumb now strokes the curve of Loki’s hip. A deep, hungry growl comes from the depths of his throat. “I’m sure you are,” he states breathlessly, as if Loki had stolen the air from his lungs, “a cute thing like you? You must have had your fair share of...decisions by now.”

Loki’s lips flap open to say something else when a hand settles upon the Grandmaster’s shoulder and a clearing of a throat forces both men’s attention to land upon Thor. Upon seeing him, the Grandmaster laughs loudly, his hand flying to press against his stomach. He points at Thor’s new haircut.

“Nice haircut! Did you do it for the wedding?”

“Yes,” Thor grumbles, his eyes flickering to Loki’s waist where the Grandmaster’s hand still remains; his own grip on the Grandmaster’s shoulder tightens. “If you’d excuse me, I’ve come to collect my brother and our refreshments.”

“Right,” the Grandmaster continues to smile, he unwinds his hand from around Loki’s waist, “well I’ll let you two get back to your festivities.” Turning back to Loki, he continues to smile at him, the hunger in his eyes remains there but it seems deeper. “But you, ah, you know what they say,” leaning closer to the God of Myths, he whispers into his ear, “after the wedding you’re all mine.”

The blush on Loki’s face betrays him as the Grandmaster walks away making him feel like he just lost at another chess game.

“You know, brother,” Loki exhales through lightly clenched teeth, “I didn’t need your help in cockblocking my soon to be husband. I was doing a fine job all on my own.”

“Were you now?” Thor scoffs, rolling his eyes at his brother, “because the blush upon your cheeks says otherwise.”

“I hope the Norns strike you dead,” Loki spits as the bartender comes over to hand him a plate of drinks.

By the time the two of them return to their table, it’s laden with a rich assortment of foods. Lady Sif, with a foxish grin upon her face, leans in close and punches Loki in his arm as her eyes flicker over to where the Grandmaster sits.

“That’s him?” She asks.

“Who?” Fandral asks.

“The man over there; the one with silver hair and gold robes,” she explains, pointing a finger towards the Grandmaster, forcing the Warriors Three to twist their heads in the direction. Lady Sif focuses her gaze back on Loki. “We were wondering what took you so long to come back to the table,” she smiles at him, “but we could see you were having a fun time with your husband to be’s hand wrapped around your waist.”

The warriors laugh.

“That is until Thor nearly bolted up from the table and stormed his way over to the bar!” Hogun roars with laughter.

Offended by such words, Thor exclaims, “I never bolted up from the table!”

“Fine,” Sif waves her hands dismissively, “angrily stood up and stomped your way over to the bar. We thought you were going to smite your brother-in-law.”

“He’s no brother-in-law of mine,” Thor hotly responds.

“Of course,” Fandral smiles, teasing Thor’s already sore wounds, “not until after the wedding.”

Even Loki himself can’t help but join the others in their laughter. Drinks flow as smoothly as water as the night grows longer, cracking jokes here and there, Thor and Loki decide it’s time to leave when Volstagg starts to burst into tears at the prospect of his daughters growing up. Hela decides to remain there, not yet having drunk her fill.

Managing to sneak himself and Loki back into the castle. Thor stumbles into Loki’s bedchamber, but they’re so drunk that Thor stumbles into the room, spilling Loki from his shoulder. It causes the two of them to crack up as Loki shushes Thor to be quiet. He isn’t certain how he managed to make it to his own bed, but when Loki wakes the next morning it’s to his mother wrenching the curtain of his bedchamber open, causing a beam of light to stretch across his eyes. Groaning, he turns in bed, pulls the covers over his head, and forms a little cocoon in the sheets. The silk sheets are wrenched away from his grasp, forcing him to snap his eyes open to peer at Frigga.

“Up, both of you!” Her words are like a whip so early in the morning, “you can’t just sleep the day away. There are so many things to be done.”

Groaning again, he pushes himself upright just in time to see his mother snap her fingers together and summon a pitcher of water above Thor’s head, the pitcher upends itself, dumping ice cold water all of Thor’s still sleeping form and the ottoman he somehow managed to lay himself upon.

Bolting upright with water dripping down his face and clothes, Loki snorts in amusement as Thor stares shocked at Frigga.

“If you two didn’t want to be awoken so abruptly it would have served you both well to stay away from Medina and not drink yourselves into a stupor!”

Thor and Loki glance at each other, wondering how she knew about that.

Scoffing, Frigga places her hand on her hips. “A mother knows everything about her children!” She snaps her fingers, urging them to get up. “Get dressed and make sure you two look presentable, the rest of the family is waiting in the dining hall. We have to have breakfast late because two certain princes spent the night drinking!”

With a groan, Loki collapses back against his bed. The day seems to go by quickly for him. Dragged from one location to the next by his mother to attend to last-minute things that need to be dealt with the day before the wedding. Later on that day, Loki is taking a bath with the servants attending to him when the door to his chambers creaks open, his head is tipped back to stare at his ceiling when he senses the servants leaving.

Sighing heavily, he calls out, “Mother, haven’t your dragged me around enough today—” he tugs his head down and turns, his eyes narrowing when he notices its the Grandmaster standing in his chambers and not his mother.

“You know,” the Grandmaster hums, glancing around the room, “I’ve had a lot of people call me daddy before, but this is the first time I’ve had anyone call me mommy.”

Cocking a brow at him, Loki slips a pleasant smile upon his face. “Grandmaster, to what occasion do I owe your sudden visit?”

The Grandmaster’s eyes flicker to the bath Loki is in, the water covered by flower petals that cling to his skin and obscure everything else, it makes Loki’s skin heat up.

“Right,” the man smiles at him, “I came because I wanted to have a little chat before the wedding.”

“A chat?”

The Grandmaster nods, moves over to the pitcher of wine in Loki’s bedchamber, takes a sniff at it, and pours some out for himself. “Yes, about the wedding, you know, wanted to see if you’re still up for it.”

“‘Up for it?’” Confusion laces itself through Loki’s words, not understanding the odd cards the Grandmaster lays before him.

Sipping upon his cup of wine, the Grandmaster gives Loki a lazy roll of his wrist, “Yea, you know, deciding if you want to go through with this marriage or not.”

Eyes narrowing, Loki stares at him. “But I’ve already agreed to go through with this marriage.”

“Of course you did,” the Grandmaster nods his head in understanding, “and not that I don’t want to get married to you, you’re gorgeous and all that, but I’m going to give you the courtesy that I wish I had the first time I got married.”

The information that the Grandmaster had been married prior is new news to Loki who files it away for later.

The Grandmaster continues, “So I’m giving you the opportunity, now, to back out of this marriage if you want to. I won’t attack Assgard—”

“—Asgard,” Loki corrects him.

“—yes, yes,” the Grandmaster waves dismissively, “I won’t attack Asgard if you back out of the marriage agreement.”

Loki knows that he should take this opportunity; it’s something he’s wanted since the beginning and now it’s being offered to him upon a golden platter. This is his one chance to say yes, but his lips clamp shut; why is it so difficult to say?

“I’ve already made my decision, Grandmaster, and I’m not one to change it again.”

Observing him, wine goblet weighing down his palm, the Grandmaster smiles at Loki and seems to nod his head. “You’re a very interesting one,” he comments, pausing to take a sip of his wine, his eyes seem to bore into Loki’s as he sets the goblet down, “well, see you at the wedding then!”

As quickly as he came, he seems to leave. The hours before the wedding seem to all but blend together until Loki is waking up as servants flock into the room to dress him. When they’re finished, Frigga stares at him, her fingers laced together as her her hands hover over her mouth in a tightly closed embrace. Tears shimmer in her eyes that threaten to spill upon seeing him dressed in all of his glory. The dress is a light shade of cream, the sleeves hang off of his shoulders highlighting his collarbone and slim shoulders. His hair had been teased into loose waves that reach just below his shoulders. The gold sash she’d given him is wrapped around his waist, the bracelet of intertwined snakes already slipped onto his left wrist.

It’s simple, but it’s him.

“Oh,” Frigga softly lets out as the tears already spill down her cheeks.

“Please don’t cry,” Loki gently tells her, “the wedding hasn’t even started.”

The door to his chambers creaks open as Hela pushes her head in. “Please tell me you both are ready? I’m dying to rip this dress off of my skin.”

Hela and Frigga lead him out of his chambers and to a large meadow on the outskirts of the capital city. Three tents have been pitched up in the field; the two smaller tents are for Loki and the Grandmaster respectively, to be kept there so neither of them see each other before the actual ceremony. The largest tent is for after the wedding where the guests and family are meant to eat and drink themselves into a stupor. The wedding was to be commenced at noon with the rest of the evening dedicated to everyone partying as if it was the night before Ragnorok. 

“Nervous?” Hela asks him once they’ve been in Loki’s tent for an hour. She wears a black dress, with a diamond keyhole in the middle that shows off an ample amount of cleavage but not too much that would cause their mother to faint before the wedding even started.

“No,” he replies truthfully, because he really isn’t. He’s had enough time to get rid of all of his nerves leading up to the wedding.

Horns sound outside as the tent flap parts and lets Odin inside of its belly. It’s a rare occassion for him to be smiling when his eyes land upon Loki in his wedding glory.

“You look as beautiful as Frigga on her wedding day.” A rare smile parts his lips showing the barest hint of white teeth. His eyes seem watery to Loki’s observant gaze; he doesn’t need two parents to cry before he even makes it to the altar. Holding an arm out for Loki to take, Loki slips his arm through Odin’s, his hand coming to rest upon his bicep.

With a playful smile on her lips, Hela heads out of the tent, not before telling him, “See you at the altar, little brother.”

Being lead out into the meadow, tiny little stones mark a pathway from his tent to the altar. High pitched voices accompanied by flutes, the delicate strings of the  _ kraviklyr _ and the more thicker sounds plucked from the  _ tagelharpe _ ring out in the meadow, becoming louder as Loki approaches them. Rows of people stand lined on either side of the altar; he spies the Warriors Three, their families and Lady Sif a row behind where his family stands. Brunnhilde and Hildegarde wave to him as he passes by. Standing under the makeshift altar, woven from branches and white flowers growing abundantly within the meadow and raised up upon a platform is the Grandmaster. Gone is the eyecatching robes of gold and red, or his tunic that’s as blue as the sky. Instead, he wears a simple white tunic with delicately spun pants. The neck of the tunic and the hem of the sleeves are embroidered with red thread, a dark brown sash inscribed with strange runes and figures that he had never seen before. His hands are clasped behind his back as he beams at Loki, the blue streak that runs down the middle of his bottom lip seems even more bright today.

The priestess conducting the ceremony waits behind a slim table as Odin and Loki approach. Loki slips his arm out of Odin’s and steps up onto the platform.

“Beloved,” the priestess intones, voice rich like honey left to ferment for some time, “we are gathered here today not just to witness two people become one through the union of marriage, but to bear witness to an alliance between Asgard and Sakaar through the matrimony of Loki Odinson and—” she pauses, glancing at the Grandmaster.

“Just Grandmaster is fine,” he tells her, eyes never once leaving Loki since he’d stepped upon to the platform.

“—the Grandmaster,” she intones, slipping back into the rhythm of things as if there hadn’t been a slight pause. She nods her head subtly, motioning for Frigga and Odin to stand, a roll of rich silk rests between their hands, they step up onto the platform, the priestess unwraps the bundle revealing the sword Loki, Thor, and Hela had stolen from their ancestors’ vault. Its silver surface glows under the sun, appearing almost bone-white down to its hilt. Runes that are the sword’s name are etched on the surface of it, now faded with time, making it unreadable. Lifting the sword into her hands, she holds it aloft and passes it from over Loki’s head to the Grandmaster. “With this sword, these two become one. May the old ones and the ancestors that dining in Valhalla watch your united houses, bless you with peace and bountiful fruit aplenty.” Swinging the sword over their heads for good measure once more, the priestess replaces it back onto the roll of silk as Odin and Frigga whisk it away.

Motioning for the rings to be brought up, Topaz comes to the platform, a small pillow in her hands on which rests two golden rings. One plain and the other a slim band with an oval emerald surrounded on either side by small diamonds. Loki spies runes inscribed inside the band that read  _ to you my heart belongs _ . 

He glances at the Grandmaster who merely continues to smile at him.

“Please, exchange the rings.” The priestess informs them both. Loki takes up the plainer band and slips it onto the Grandmaster’s ring finger, with the Grandmaster doing to the same for him. “United before everyone today as two souls and two hearts who’ve become one, you may kiss to seal your union.”

Rocking on the balls of his feet, the Grandmaster looks as giddy as a child who discovered where their parents had hidden all of the baked goods. His hands reach out, covering Loki’s cheeks as he pulls him forward. He’s pulled close enough that it clicks for him, the whole reason he believes the Grandmaster has gone through with this wedding. The hunger that burns in his eyes, those same eyes that raked over him during the whole ceremony, seemed to undress him in the Grandmaster’s mind. Two sets of warm lips connect with each other, lips part, the Grandmaster’s tongue snakes in, glides over Loki’s teeth, his gums and every part he can reach as if he’s committing the inside of Loki’s mouth to memory.

“Save some for the wedding night!” Hela shouts at the two of them, the crowd descending into laughter as Loki and the Grandmaster part.

His lips are kiss swollen, a cherry red contrast to his pale skin. The grin on the Grandmaster’s face is so wide that Loki worries he’ll be permanently stuck with it. The reception after is a blur for Loki, he remembers drinks being shoved into his hand, food and wine flowing like honey. Sweetbread being fed to him, until the Grandmaster’s hand is wrapped around his waist as they head back to his bedchamber. He expects a lot of things to happen tonight when they enter, he expects the Grandmaster to strip him, lead him to his bed, and for the two of them to consummate this marriage. What he doesn’t expect is for the Grandmaster to lay a finger against his lips.

“We have an early journey tomorrow, sweetheart.” The Grandmaster’s breath is rich with the sweet honeyed notes of mead. “So no fun tonight, unfortunately. We need to get all the rest we can and well—” he pauses to take a sweeping look at Loki’s curves that are highlighted by his wedding dress. “—if you and I were to, ah, get tangled up in bed I don’t think either of us would get much sleep.”

With a yawn, the Grandmaster unwraps himself from Loki and heads for the bed.  _ What is this man? _ Loki finds himself thinking.

When morning arrives, Loki and the Grandmaster are standing at the port, an Asgardian skipper loaded up and prepared for the journey to Sakaar.

“Promise to write me as often as you can,” the grip Frigga holds on Loki’s hands is enough to crush bones.

“I promise,” he manages to tell her through gritted teeth, heaving a sigh of relief when she lets go of his hands.

She’s crying as she moves away from him and heads to Thor to sob against his shoulder. “Loki,” Odin approaches him, placing a hand upon his shoulder, “child of mine, you may not understand everything I do and why I do them, but I hope that with the passage of time and your marriage that you eventually will.”

“Yes, yes,” Loki huffs, “I won’t kill my own husband before we leave.”

With more goodbyes delivered and promises to write frequently along with promises on Loki’s part to not murder his husband the second the skipper rises in the air, he finally boards the ship along with the Grandmaster, Topaz, Brunnhilde, and Hildegard who accompany him for the journey. It’s about a half a day journey to Sakaar. With nothing but the sea to look at for the entire time and beyond that, it’s a few hours’ journey to the capital city. So it wouldn’t be until evening when they finally reached.

“Land!” Brunnhilde cries out as Loki leans against the edge of the skipper to see the edge of a large continent in the distance. Its outer isles are connected to the mass by massive bridges that seem to dwarf the Rainbow Bridge in comparison. From there, they take a much smaller ship to the capital after their luggage is transferred.

Large golden gates nearly as tall as several giants stacked together looms in the distance. Walls surround the city, equally as made of gold as the gate that protects it. As the ship hovers over the city, Loki can see a sprawling metropolis that stretches as far as the eye can see.

“Loki,” the Grandmaster turns toward him, spreads his arms wider than the grin upon his face, “welcome to Sakaar’s capital, Crown City.”


	3. City of Secrets

Crown City, the capital of Sakaar, extends out over the land as far as Loki can see it. Gigantic roadways cut through the city, starting from the gate and leading straight to the palace. The roads divide the city into four equal parts before branching off into smaller roads, they seem to glitter to Loki’s eyes, whatever material that had been used to make them catching the rays of the morning sun and glittering as if they’d been cut from gold. 

Rows of businesses are arranged neatly near the golden gates, the traders’ district where Loki can see from his vantage point up in the clouds; polychromatic waves of clothing in various shades move like waves within the ocean. Traders from various kingdoms and civilizations known to man traverse along the Sakaaran streets, gathering to look at the thousands of wares being sold or haggled for. Beyond that, a large public square takes up the right quadrant of the city, it also doubles as a marketplace. He can see vendors manning various stalls, selling a range of spices, fruits, vegetables, and other wares. The scent of fried, doughy sweets tickles at his nose even high up in the air. His mouth waters at the scent. Up to the north lies what can only be called an industrial city on its own, smoke curls into the air, but it’s not black from the usage of coal, but clean with no fragrance to it, at least none that Loki can tell of after taking a sniff. A few miles from it, sits a large reservoir of water, large pipes jut out of the reservoir and filter into a sleek facility made of glass and steel.

“It’s our hydroelectric facility,” the Grandmaster cooly answers into Loki’s ear, seemingly sensing his curiosity before he had the time to utter out his question. “Almost all of Sakaar runs on it, the rest utilizes wind power.” His eyes seem to crinkle around the corners, “at least not for long, I hope.”

Loki wonders what he means by that as he watches the Grandmaster walk away to stand by Topaz’s side. Continuing to gaze out over the city, Loki spies a resplendent park, reddish-gold leaves dance in the wind despite summer having just started. He spies an amphitheater, built in a modern expressionist taste, a concrete “shell” juts out at the top of the building, serving as it’s roof. Tearing his eyes away from the theater, Loki’s gaze returns to the pathway leading up from the main gate to the palace, a large golden arc frames part of the road until finally, his gaze falls upon the palace. It’s a large structure bone-white in color, with gold delicate details and towers with gold domes and wraparound glass walls. Delicate vines and shrubbery climb up the walls, which at first makes the palace seem unkempt to one’s eyes, but was artfully planned by whoever constructed it. The palace grounds seem huge as the airship passes over it. Easily big enough that it could house all of the pubs and taverns in Medina and then some. The palace itself is situated on a large mass of land, connected to the rest of the city by a bone-white bridge, gold lamps are spread out along the edges with green vines that bloom with white roses growing over the stones.

Once the ship descends and parks in the imperial hanger, everyone disembarks from the ship with Grandmaster taking Loki’s hand into his own, leading him away from the hanger and down a small branching road that leads them along a scenic pathway and into the city.

“Since this is going to be your new home, Loki,” Grandmaster tells him as they traverse over a small bridge, lined by flowering trees, “I thought I’d give you a small tour before we head to the palace.”

“Shall we be taking a carriage around the city?” Loki questions, taking a moment to glance around the small pathway they traveled upon, finding neither horse nor the curve of a carriage anywhere to be seen. Only the random citizen or couple out on a nice summer stroll who incline their heads at Grandmaster in passing.

Grandmaster lets out a chuckle to Loki’s question as if its very content was humorous. “A carriage? Why would we need one for?”

Loki confused by his nonchalance and lack of concern for his own safety by strolling out and about amongst his own citizens, blinks at him as if the Grandmaster had told him that the sky was no longer blue but green. Lips turning down at the corners, Loki asks, “You just...walk amongst your own people?”

Grandmaster blinks at him, mouth slightly wrinkled at the corners. “Yes? What kind of ruler would I be if I didn’t? Don’t you do the same back in Asgard?”

“No, there are too many chances for harm to befall us if we just strolled about the capital with hardly a care in the world and without a bodyguard in sight.”

“Well, I do have a bodyguard,” Grandmaster chuckles, he turns his head slightly, gaze flickering back to Topaz, Brunnhilde, and Hildegard who trail some distance behind them at a slower pace. “But, here in Sakaar, I don’t have to fear my own people.” He gestures around himself with a sweep of his arm, causing Loki to take notice of the red and pink-skinned hue of the native Sakaaran’s along with the more darker-skinned Sakaaran’s, their features as dark as freshly wetted soil. Intricate tattoos mar the stripes of exposed skin that he can see, the designs small yet vibrant to the eyes. “So,” Grandmaster continues, “there’s no need for me to walk around my own kingdom with a retinue of guards.”

“Don’t you fear that someone could injure you? All it takes is one well-hidden knife to slip between your ribs and you’re good as dead.”

The corners of Grandmaster’s lips twitch into a smile, “Oh, trust me, sweetheart, someone, a very long time ago made the mistake of trying that. I’m still here and well they’re—” he shrugs his shoulders in an insouciant manner.

Continuing their stroll it takes them about half an hour to reach the palace doors. They push open by themselves, revealing a long hallway, decorated with the same color scheme as the exterior of the palace. A gaggle of servants stand around ready to attend to them. Grandmaster orders a handful of them to fetch the luggage from the airship and the others to prepare refreshments. The servants depart to fulfill their respective tasks, leaving behind a young female servant.

Her rose-pink skin seems to glow in the early afternoon light that filters into the hall. Her hair, tied up in a messy bun fades from fine, black hairs at her scalp to soft purple and then coral pink at the tips. The most captivating part of her is her vibrant lavender eyes. The Grandmaster’s slender and lengthy fingers move like a conductor’s forming signs and shapes with those slender limbs. He watches the young woman reply back with her own fingers moving in a similar manner.

_ That looks nothing like Asgardian sign language.  _ Loki finds himself thinking.  _ Is she deaf or mute? _

Grandmaster, leaning close to him introduces her with a flourish of his hands. “Kaia here is going to be your handmaiden, she’ll tend to all your whims and desires.” He then gestures wildly at the palace around him. “As someone once told me,  _ mi casa su casa _ , learned that one from a foreign dignitary. Shame I had to execute him for espionage.”

“What does it mean?” Loki questions him about the unusual phrase.

Grandmaster frowns at that, lips quivering into a frown, “Oh, I never learned what it meant,” he waves his hand dismissively, “very short time between that phrase and the execution, but treat this place as if it’s your own home—it is now that I’m remembering we just got married. Kaia will show you around the palace while the servants bring your things up and I deal with some work that I let pile up.” He has some other servants come to fetch Brunnhilde and Hildegard, leading them to the refreshments that had been prepared earlier so that they could recuperate from the long journey. Leaving him alone with Kaia, Loki inclines his head ever so slightly at her.

“Well, shall we take that tour of the palace?”

A grin splits her lips apart, nodding her head at him, she takes off down the hall at a snail's pace waiting for him to join her. Following after her, he’s lead down the long hall, its paved arched cutouts where glass windows would normally be placed in, but they’re empty letting in a warm breeze. It makes Loki wonder if they enchant the hall with a warming spell during the colder months. A set of golden doors is on either side that leads out into a well cared for inner garden. He watches Kaia reach into the folds of her robes, producing a slim book and a pen. Flipping the book open to a blank page, she quickly scribbles upon it before twisting her body and holding the open book out to him like a peace offering.

_ The inner gardens.  _ Is what’s written upon the page.  _ It’s pretty in the spring and summer and has plenty of fruit trees. _ She beams expectantly at him as if waiting for his reaction.

His lips twitch into a sly grin, “I’ll be sure to enjoy them as much as I can before winter comes.”

She leads him to a juncture at the end of the hall. Before them a large, ornate door and on either side of them, halls that snake off to the left and right.  _ Through the door is the great hall, it’s typically kept shut, but is in use whenever the Grandmaster throws parties or events. _ Kaia communicates through her book.  _ The kitchen is down to the right. _ She takes him down the left and up a grand staircase, shows him the palace library on the second floor. So expansive in size, it nearly takes up the entire wing. He sees rows upon rows of shelves, staircases within the library that lead up to four different levels, and tables with self-lighting candles for reading. What he sees before him rivals any of the libraries at scholarly institutions. His mouth must be hanging open in incredulity as hears a girlish chuckle beside him. A fist is pressed over Kaia’s lips as she does her best to avoid his gaze.  _ Come, there’s much more to see, _ she writes.

Their next destination is the third floor, where his new bedchamber exists. Pushing open the door, she exposes to his eyes a quantity decorated room. There’s a large canopy bed that could easily fit four or more people. There’s a small table with two chairs on a raised platform that leads out onto the balcony. An archway leading into a walk-in closet exists on the wall opposite of the bed. There’s another door a foot away from the bed that Loki suspects leads to the bathroom and toilet.

There’s a tap against his shoulder that has him turning around as Kaia thrusts her book before his face.

_ This is the Consort’s bedchamber; the Grandmaster was uncertain of your personal taste, so he ordered the servants to redecorate it, so it was comfortable. _

Loki runs his fingers over the decor and furnishings in the room. “Has this bedchamber sat empty for long?” He questions, pulling his fingers away and finding them free of dust, remembering the Grandmaster’s words about his first marriage. He watches Kaia scribble in her book, turns it to him.

_ Your and my definition of “long” would differ. _ He cocks a brow at her, wondering what she means by that. She quickly writes something else in her book.  _ Please inform me if you don’t like any of the furniture and I can change it to suit your tastes. _

“No, it’s fine.” Loki insists. “Thank you.”

_ It’s been a long journey, sire.  _ Kaia writes.  _ If you don’t mind I’ll leave your presence for now to bring you refreshments. _

With that, she leaves Loki by himself. By the time there’s a knock on the door, Loki suspects it’s Kaia, rising from the little table he’s seated himself at, he calls for whoever’s at the door to come in. When it pushes open he’s surprised to find that it’s Brunnhilde and her wife instead of his handmaiden.

“We’ve come to give you our parting greetings.” Brunnhilde smiles at him.

Loki’s shocked, to say the least. “You both are leaving already?”

She nods. “Our mission was to escort you to Sakaar safely and ensure your well being. We’ve escorted you to Sakaar and well...we think you’re half mad but that’s good enough for us.”

Nodding his head at them, he still can’t help the flood of disappointment that worms it’s way into his heart. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” he starts with a dramatic sigh, “but I will actually miss both of your presences.” 

“Oh,” Brunnhilde glances at her wife, surprise coloring her expression. “You sound like you’ll never see us again.” She makes her way over to Loki, cocks her arm back, and punches him in his bicep. The muscle throbs where her knuckles connected with his arm. “It's not like you’re chained to Sakaar or we’re chained to Asgard; we’ll meet again, probably soon.”

“Soon?” Loki questions with a lift of his brows, gaze shifting between Brunnhilde and Hildegard.

A smile slips across both of their faces as Brunnhilde takes a hand and gently lays it over her wife’s stomach. Loki doesn’t understand the subtle movement at first but his face morphs from shock to disbelief before finally settling on joy.

“I’ve been blessed with a child,” Hildegard announces through the biggest grin upon her face.

Eyes nearly bugging out of his head, Loki reaches out—with a nod of permission from both Brunnhilde and Hildegarde—and puts his own hand against her stomach. “You’re joking,” he breathes out, surprise coloring his words.

“Our words are as true as Asgard’s finest mead.” Brunnhilde juts her chin out.

“When?” He asks.

“The last month of autumn,” Hildegard supplies, “hopefully by winter’s breath you’ll be in Asgard to see this little one’s smiling face.”

“Do you know what it is yet?”

“No.”

“But,” Brunnhilde smiles, places her knuckles against her waist, “hopefully this kid comes out with my sword-fighting skills.”

Her wife cocks a brow at her. “Oh? And what about my weaving skills? Or my ability to cook? Our child can’t live off of mead and preserved meat.” Though her face looks austere, there’s no heat to her words. Especially as she watches Brunnhilde’s cheeks darken with a blush. 

Clearing her throat, Brunnhilde glances at Loki, poking at his own abdomen when he rises, “Well, we’re off, you better not have a fresh bun in your own oven by the time we get back to Asgard.”

Playfully smacking her hand away, Loki tells her, “No such thing shall occur.”

With a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, Brunnhilde reaches out and presses a hand against Loki’s shoulder, “Keep in touch. We’ll come back if you’re in need of rescuing.” More parting greetings and promises to keep in touch are shared between the three until Loki is standing upon his balcony—that gives him a great view out onto the palace grounds and bits of the capital that he can see—and waving goodbye to the two Valkyrie warriors until they’re little dots in the distance.

Kaia finally returns to his chamber, with a pitcher of wine and a small plate of cheese and soft biscuits. He moves over to the small table she’s set it down upon, munching on one of the biscuits as she pours out some of the wine for him and hands the cup over. Taking a sip, he’s mildly surprised to find that it’s sweet; sweet almost like liquified honey and fruit juice. “What is this?” He asks her, watching the way this young woman’s lips curve.

_ It’s a specialty of Sakaar _ . She answers.  _ It’s called Heaven’s Water and is made from locally grown fruits. _

“It’s not bad,” Loki remarks, taking a large swig of it, seating himself at the small table, he eats more until Kaia is shoving her book beneath his nose, her thin, loopish handwriting splayed across the page. 

_ The Grandmaster has asked that you join him for dinner. In the meantime, would you like to continue your tour of the palace? _

He tells her yes. When the refreshments are finished, he continues his tour of the palace until Kaia is leading him two more flights of stairs above the floor where his own chamber is located to the Grandmaster’s chamber. She knocks her knuckles against the door.

“Come in! Come in!” The Grandmaster’s voice calls in from the room, she pushes the door open, revealing a slightly dressed down Grandmaster, his gold robe is draped against the arm of a chaise, his silver pants and blue tunic are the two articles of clothing that remain. He’s sitting a table in the room, adorned with a luxurious bounty of food.

Beaming at Loki he waves him over, “Good you’re here, sit, sit.” He waves him over, dismissing Loki’s servant, Kaia, with a quick thankful grin.

“You take your meals in your chamber?” Loki questions with an amused grin as he takes the seat opposite of Grandmaster.

Grandmaster shrugs, “On Sakaar, we take everything and do everything casually; eating in a formal dining room while fun, is a little stuffy, don’t you think?” He smiles at Loki.

“I will admit, this way of taking a meal...is unusual to me, but it’s interesting.”

Grandmaster nods, reaching out to fill his and Loki’s cups with a fruity drink. “So, how are you enjoying the palace so far?”

“I’ve enjoyed what I’ve seen so far,” Loki tells him, “though, the library interests me the most.”

That causes Grandmaster to laugh, “I knew you’d like the library the most.”

Nodding, Loki takes a sip of his drink, seemingly remembering immediately something he wanted to bring up. “Kaia is a very interesting young woman.”

A bitter smile seems to tug at the edges of Grandmaster’s lips. “Took her in when she was a little girl.” He flaps his hand as if recalling the memory, “her whole village was wiped out from a disease that swept through the country, bit of a hellish period, managed to get it under control in time, but it left its mark. Found her huddled up near the dead body of her parents, she was nearly at death’s door by the time I found her, but—” he shrugs yet again.

Loki remembers the disease all too well. It had reached Asgard’s borders, but Frigga being as wise as she was in the mystic and healing arts had lead Asgard’s healers to quarantine sick individuals or anyone who came into contact with them and was able to beat back the virus before it could wreak damage on the Nine Realms. “Did the disease rob her of her voice as well?” There were many long-lasting effects of the disease aside from the bouts of delirium that came with the illness. Loss of vision and muteness had been one of them, in some patients, either one or both symptoms became a permanent staple of life.

“No,” Grandmaster replies with a shake of his head, “Kaia was like that way from birth.”

Nodding, Loki lifts up his knife and fork, aiming for the roasted chicken sitting in a platter of its own juices that had been plopped down in the middle of the table. He pauses when Grandmaster reaches out, resting a hand on the back of his own.

“Oh, wait, please allow me.” With his own knife and fork, Grandmaster slices through the roast chicken, peeling off a section of the breast meat, juices ooze out of the bird that Grandmaster slides the sliver of meat through. “This chicken comes from a part of Sakaar famous for its meats; chicken, beef, pork, you get what I’m saying. The meat from there is so good, some consider it to be an aphrodisiac on its own.”

“Is that so?” He hums as Grandmaster levels the slice of chicken with Loki’s lips, waiting for the god to obediently open his own mouth. Lifting his eyes to peer at him, Loki recognizes this dinner for what it’s worth; a game of seduction to get into his underthings.

He almost cracks a smile—almost—but two can play at this game.

Tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of juice from the chicken, Loki can feel Grandmaster’s whole body stiffen even from across the table. His tongue curls around the chicken, dragging it off of the fork and into his own mouth as he slowly chews, keeping his gaze level with Grandmaster’s own. He lets out a soft moan as he swallows.

Grandmaster’s eyes widen in his head, he lets out a chuckle as his grip on his cutlery tightens. “You, uh, you look like you’re really enjoying that chicken there.”

“I will admit,” Loki smiles, pausing to take a sip of his drink, “it’s much better than anything I’ve ever had.” Batting his eyelashes for good measure, he can see Grandmaster’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Oh,” Grandmaster slowly breathes out, as if that single word had been stuck in his throat for centuries, “you are just...something else.”

“So as your consort—” Loki starts only to be cut off by the Grandmaster who’s begun to fill his plate with food.

“Oh, consort! I wasn’t too certain which term you were going to go with considering—” he flaps his hand in Loki’s direction, “—but if you’d like to refer to yourself as that sure, or whatever is more comfortable with you really.”

“—so, as your consort.” Loki begins again, “what duties will you expect of me to shoulder?”

A bark of laughter, bubbles from Grandmaster’s throat as he stares at Loki incredulously, “You just got here and you’re already eager to learn about the business? What did you normally do in Asgard?”

“Well, I spent much of my time studying under my mother, learning magic, arithmetic, literature, how to manage a household as well as laws and civics.”

“Well, whatever you did in Asgard is what I want you to do here as well, but not right away, ah, you did just come here after all and Sakaar is so different from Asgard in a lot of ways; take some time, you know, become accustomed to the palace before anything else, but more importantly I’d like for us to get to know each other better first.”

Batting his eyelashes again, Loki allows his lips to curve into a smile, “Of course, what would you like—”

The Grandmaster cuts him off, leaning forward against the table like a child who’s just found a shiny and unique object. “You know I’ve been intrigued since the beginning—since I’ve laid my eyes on you really—you don’t see too much of your own kind nowadays, not roaming around, of course, tend to stick to the cold and whatnot.”

Skin prickling uncomfortably at Grandmaster’s words, a disarming smile forces the edges of Loki’s lips to lift. He chuckles, lightly, as if the words coming from the Grandmaster’s mouth are a joke he finally understands. “—my own kind?”

“Yea,” Grandmaster snaps his fingers together, his ever-present smile still upon his face, eyes quickly glancing up at the ceiling as he tries to recall a nugget of information in the deep recesses of his mind. “Those giants, or well, frost giants.”

Loki can hear his own heart fly up into his throat. His pulse deafeningly loud to his own ears, his pulse quickening in that way that makes him think of a rabbit racing across grassy plains to escape the predator chasing after it.

Grandmaster, either oblivious to Loki’s unease or choosing to ignore it, continues orating, “I was wondering why you kept all those enchantments up,” his nose wrinkles ever so slightly, it makes Loki’s heart twist inside of him, like the Grandmaster had just paused to personally stick his hands inside of Loki’s chest, wrap them around the organ and twist until it stops beating. His throat feels tight as the Asgardian swallows his emotions down.

It doesn’t work.

“Now that we’re married,” he continues, syrup colored eyes twinkling with amusement as they settle upon Loki’s face. “You can just be yourself around me you know—”

“—what?” That single word, that small word, wrenches itself painfully from Loki’s throat in a harsh whisper that reeks of discomfort. Before he can say anything else, he watches Grandmaster lift a hand, point an index finger up at the ceiling, and wiggle it in a small circle. Loki can feel his enchantments that are layered against his skin being tugged at with deft, invisible fingers. Layers and layers of enchantments built atop one another with complex weavings of magic so strong that it normally took Frigga hours once every few years since Loki was a child to complete them all. But once he had learned how to carefully construct them and layer them himself in the same process, he took over his mother’s duties.

Now his enchantments are crumbling down around him; he can feel the color from his skin fading, turning a wintery blue, his irises and pupils bleeding into a shade of crimson red, strange patterns etch themselves into his skin.

He finds it difficult to breathe suddenly as Grandmaster gestures at him, eyes bright and shining as if he’s just glimpsed upon some rare prize. It sickens Loki, his mouth bitter as he wonders if that’s why this strange man wanted to marry him. Not for his body, not because he found Loki attractive, but because he was this rare thing that could be put upon a shelf and admired until the Grandmaster grew bored of him.

“There that wasn’t so bad was it?” Elation wraps itself around the Grandmaster’s tongue as he gestures at Loki’s revealed form. His lips are still stretched in a grin as he continues to stare at his partner, expecting him to lift his head and reply back in kind to the emotions that are bubbling in his chest.

Loki lifts his head, but what the Grandmaster finds painted across his face is neither joy nor elation of any kind. The Asgardian’s face is cold, eyes dark and little black dots within the sclera that look like droplets of spilled ink. Loki’s lips fall open, his words dying upon his tongue as nothing but a strange croak fall from his open mouth; his chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to pull in a breath. The Grandmaster’s own face morphing from joy to shock and then to worry as he watches Loki spring up from his seat, the chair tipping back and clattering to the floor with the hurried movement.

The wrinkles upon Loki’s forehead become prominent, his mouth flapping open and shut like a dying fish as if he was gasping for air, which he is, panic surges through his cold veins. The panic seems infectious as Grandmaster hastily snaps his fingers together, Loki can feel his enchantments hastily repairing. They’re not elegant and carefully tailored like what Loki’s used to, this is shoddy, a young girl’s first embroidery hung up next to a master’s. It’s not refined, but he’ll have to make due with it until he can return to his chamber and repair them alone.

When the enchantments have been repaired and Loki is back to his normal self, he leans forward, fingers curled as his hands grip at the edge of the table. His expression is dark, mouth drawn into a tight grimace. “Never. Do. That. Again.” He hisses each word out, cold and venomous, spittle flying from his lip on the last word as he reaches up and rubs at his throat. His anger so great that he can’t even bring himself to look at Grandmaster.

Grandmaster holds his hands up placatingly, “Ok,” he says hurriedly, “ok, I can see now that’s a very, ah, touchy subject for you. My apologies, if I’d known better I would never have done that. Please,” he gestures to the table still laden with food that’s been hardly touched, “sit down and let’s eat dinner.”

“No thank you,” Loki replies coldly, if anyone else was in the room, they could almost see the chips of ice hanging from his words, “I’ve had enough, I think I’d like to return to my chamber now.”

Seeming disappointed, Grandmaster nods, remarks to Loki that if he’s feeling peckish later that Kaia can bring him something from the kitchen. Returning to his own chamber, Loki sinks down onto his bed with a tired sigh and begins the process of repairing his enchantments. It’s grueling work, having to repair Grandmaster’s own hasty work, before setting about building the enchantments that have become something like a second skin to him from the ground up and then layering them one over the other.

By the time he’s done, exhaustion weaves itself through him as he falls back against the soft mattress and feels his eyelids droop. He hardly remembers sleep claiming him, but when he awakes hours later, he’s tucked underneath his bedsheets, the faintest rays of morning light shines through the thin curtains causing the shadows of his chamber to shrink back against the walls. The sky is the lightest shade of violet tinged with splashes of soft pink, informing him that the sun will begin to rise soon.

A yawn causes his mouth to slacken, his stomach gurgling with hunger as he remembers that he hasn’t eaten anything since that single bite of chicken from last night. He’s starving, but hardly feels like bothering Kaia to fetch him food. Deciding to let his young servant rest, Loki slips out from beneath the covers of his bed and into the hallway. Remembering where the location of the kitchen is from the palace tour.

Walking through the deserted halls, he makes it down to the first floor of the palace, passing by the inner garden when out of the corner of his eye, he spies a twinkle of the richest gold. It causes him to turn his head as a sweet scent tickles at his nose. There’s a bush in the garden of what looks like roses spun out of pure golden metal, intrigued by the flower, Loki finds himself detouring from his path to the kitchen and heading out to the garden through the right door in the hall.

Lured out there by the sweet smell of the flowers, he makes his way over to the bush, fingers reaching out to gently lift up a rosebud and sniffs at it, inhaling the sweet scent that causes Loki to think of his mother’s perfumes, the crisp scent of apples, and sweet jams.

“Beautiful aren’t they?”

At the sound of another’s voice in the gardens with him, Loki turns, finding a homely old man standing behind him. His hair and beard are the color of freshly fallen snow, long and thick, he looks wise in appearance that seems to compliment his kind demeanor. Clothed in a long robe, with purple and red trim upon the edges of the fabric with sleeves that are wide and hang several inches from his arms. A leather bag hangs across his body, Loki notes that his fingers have fresh soil streaked upon them. He carries a small pot of dirt in his left hand. He must notice that Loki seems startled, gives a flourished little bow and introduces himself, “Sorry for startling you, Consort, I am known as the Gardener.”

Loki’s brows rise at the name, wondering if half of the population of Sakaar is known by a title as well instead of an actual name. Not bothering to dwell on it, he gestures to the flower bush instead.

“They are,” he responds in confirmation to Gardener’s earlier question, “what are they?”

Gazing fondly at the golden roses, Gardener moves to stand beside Loki, his steps light and boisterous as if merely talking about the plant has him in good spirits. “They’re called,  _ rosa divina _ , or “the gods’ roses” due to their unique coloration, beauty, and now, of course, a rarity. Used to be found throughout the realms ages and ages ago, but now I fear, these are the only ones to remain.

Gently reaching out, he strokes one of the petals between his fingers before releasing it. “Despite their great beauty,” he smiles warmly at Loki, “they have plenty of medicinal benefits; they can be drunk and steeped into a tea to promote skin health, flush out the system of toxins, and are even known to boost fertility.”

That brings a chuckle to the Asgardian’s lips, the first joyful sound from him in what seems like eons since his disastrous dinner with Grandmaster. “You seem to have a great deal of knowledge about the plant.”

Gardener laughs, gestures out to the whole expanse of the inner garden, “I have a vast knowledge when it comes to all plants, especially those gracing the palace’s numerous gardens. Though I spend much of my time now, experimenting and studying these plants that I care for.”

Loki’s gaze flicks back to the pot of dirt the Gardener carries. “Are you tending to the plants now?”

“Yes,” he nods his head, a gentle wind blows weaving its way through the garden, “in fact I’ve been experimenting with grafting trees lately and there’s a fruit tree in the inner garden that I’ve been eyeing to tamper with. Though if you’re inclined, you may join me to come and watch my experimentation.”

“Well,” Loki’s own mouth curves ever so slightly into a grin, “I was in fact on my way to the kitchens but I suppose I can extend my detour.”

“You’re in luck then,” Gardener’s twists his torso to pat at his leather bag, mouth stretching into an even wider grin as iris colored eyes twinkly brightly in his head. “I’ve seemed to have been scatterbrained today as I’ve packed more food for my own breakfast than I could possibly eat, so feel free to help yourself to some of it too.”

Gardener leads Loki out from the inner gardens and back into the hall, through the palace, and out onto the palace grounds to the exterior gardens that were spread out behind the palace as far as the eye could see. They walk, together, to a section of the garden where a lovely orchard lays, sitting upon a marble bench, Loki watches Gardener work, setting down the pot of dirt, reaching into his leather bag to produce a withered tree limb from the interior and starts the delicate process of grafting it to a plum tree. Explaining the process as he goes along.

“This branch is from a tree that no longer exists anywhere in the Nine Realms and beyond.” Gardener beams at the withered tree limb as if it’s a child, mouth curved into a grin, eyes gazing brightly at the tree. “Thankfully, I came across its branch in a very curious shop, the owner had nary a thought about what to do with it other than to turn it into extra kindling and luckily gave this tree limb to me for a cheap price.”

He continues his work as Loki drinks in the carefully laid out garden grounds. A fountain just a few feet in front of him gurgles to life. It’s shaped like a wooden door, the interior empty as water cascades down from it like a curtain of rain. “The palace gardens are very soothing,” Loki speaks up to his new companion after some time, “nothing compared to Asgard’s gardens of course.”

Gardener clicks his tongue, a sharp sound of disapproval that pierces the air. “While the royal gardens of Asgard are stunning to look at, they were designed to show off the overwhelming wealth and riches of the royal family—”

Surprise flows across Loki’s face as Gardener’s seemingly intimate knowledge with the gardens of the royal palace of Valaskjalf. “You’ve been to the Asgardian royal gardens?” He questions, watching with an entwined sense of amusement and intrigue as his companion nods.

“Once,” Gardener responds, “what seemed like a lifetime ago. I was invited as a guest, the gardens were stunning of course, but I’ve always been inclined to designing places that pulled feelings out of the depths of a person’s heart rather than designing something that’s meant to stun the eyes only.”

Loki’s curious now, how he’s never seen this man before in his lifetime at the Valaskjalf palace. “Curiously, I can recall no memory of a guest from Sakaar coming to stay with us now nor in my youth. Did you perhaps come when I was nothing more than a babe?” He leans forward, rests an arm on his knee, palm upturned so he can rest his chin in it.

Gardener’s fingers still against the tree limb, “I was there in Asgard quite a long time ago,” he responds, neither confirming nor denying Loki’s question.

That rings oddly in Loki’s ears as he peers at Gardener and wonders if perhaps the man standing before him is somehow older than Odin. Asgardian’s are one of the longest living races that exist within the Nine Realms and beyond, but even then the elves of Svartalfheim and Alfheim’s lives are just slightly longer in comparison. On the opposite end of that, humans and other humanoid races were relatively short-lived in comparison to long-lived beings. But he frowns at that thought, knowing no one or no race that could live far longer than a single Asgardian or elf’s lifespan.

It seems preposterous.

A fairytale.

But some part of him just wonders  _ what if _ ?

Lips parting to ask Gardener more questions, he’s cut off by the man retrieving a set of tools from within the interior of his bag, working on pruning a branch from a juvenile fruit tree. He seems to peer at Loki in a way that makes it seem like he understands everything there is to know about the Asgardian. “You seem troubled, little one.” There’s an affectionate, old-worldly lilt to the affection name he’s bestowed upon Loki; one that he doesn’t exactly spurn away.

With a huff of easy laughter, Loki cooly remarks, “How can you know I’m troubled and not say, hungry, instead?”

The easy smile upon Gardener’s lips remains, “A long time ago, someone once told me that eyes are the mirrors of the soul. And your eyes seem to reflect a layer of unease wrapped around a hurt so profound that one your age should never be burdened with.”

His words are sagely, reminding Loki of Odin in a fond way. Lifting a single brow at his companion, Loki finds himself a little skeptical that he can note all of that from Loki’s cerulean colored eyes ringed with the lightest shades of emerald around his pupil. Watching the Gardener move to a ripe plum tree; he doesn’t answer Loki’s question at the moment, instead reaches up to pluck a ripe plum off of a heavy branch, dust it off on his robes, and hands the ripe fruit to Loki who gratefully bites into it.

Juices burst from the purple flesh of the fruit and spill down the side of Loki’s hand that he hastily catches with the tip of his tongue.

A warm laugh bubbles from the depths of the Gardener’s chest as he stares at the young god. “When you get to my age there are some things you must learn quickly. One of them being what another’s eyes say compared to their mouth or fists.”

Loki finds his words even more curious. “And how old must I live in order to reach your age?” The question is smooth, but seemingly not one that will draw a concrete answer from his companion.

“A very long time.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Loki’s lips curve into a frown.

“Some questions have no finite answers.”

“Hmm,” Loki hums, his curiosity unquenched, insatiate to learn more about his companion as thousands of questions flit through his mind. He bites into his plum again, now even more intrigued by this mysterious man before him. More so, equally intrigued about him as he is with Grandmaster.

“But,” Gardener remarks, continuing with their earlier line of conversation, “I see within your eyes that you are troubled, perhaps by something or someone who has wronged you in some manner without realizing the harm that would come from their actions?” He cocks a fuzzy, white brow as thick as a caterpillar in Loki’s direction, turns his wizened eyes upon him.

The juices from the plum taste bitter in Loki’s mouth instead of sweet, reaching up with the sleeve of his tunic he wipes at a stray dribble of juice that curves down his chin. “One could say that is where some of my problems lie.”

Finished with his work, Gardener brushes his hands free of dirt and reaches back into his satchel, pulling out a cloth-covered lunch that he places down on the marble bench beside Loki. “Well,” he hums, “it’s usually best to understand the other side, say someone who’s spent many years indulging in hedonistic pleasures and being served whatever they desired on a gilded platter. That person isn’t used to having their, ah...gifts and provocations backfire in their face or truly seeing the displeasure it can cause, so it might be enlightening for that person to hear such a displeasure verbally expressed. So, little one, if you can after some deliberation find it in yourself to forgive the transgressions my brother has done against you, he would be delighted.”

Eyes widening comically, Loki feels like the earth itself has stopped spinning, as if everything has gone still with Gardener’s revelation of his relation to Grandmaster. His lips pull out into a thin line as he peers at Gardener and finds no similarities between him or Grandmaster, but strikes that idea down quickly since there are no physical similarities between him, Thor, and Hela. That could just easily mean the two were adopted as well.

Continuing to smile softly, Gardener adjusts the strap of his bag against his shoulder. “There are other gardens I have to attend to, little one.” He starts to walk away, not when Loki notices that he left his lunch behind and calls out to him to inform him of such.

“Ah,” Gardener remarks, twisting his torso around when he’s some distance away from Loki that he has to raise his voice to be heard. He taps the tip of his own nose with a single finger, “I seem to have suddenly remembered that I already ate breakfast this morning, you may have it little one.”

He leaves with Loki staring at his retreating back in wonder at his newfound, strange companion. Untying the knotted handkerchief, Loki finds little tiny triangles of prosciutto and fig sandwiches, a bushel of grapes, and smaller morsels. Eating the left behind breakfast, Loki neatly folds the handkerchief and stuffs it in the inner fold of his tunic with the intention of having it laundered and giving it back to Gardener.

Morning sunlight streaks down upon the garden by the time Loki heads back into the palace. Servants are already up, attending to their own duties as he walks back to his chamber, pushes open the wooden door, and is taken aback when he finds flowers dotting every surface of the room to the point that he can hardly see past the sea of flora. He spies Kaia fluffing up a vase of roses on the little table in the room, a gentle smile on her face when she turns at the sound of him loudly moving into the room to announce his presence.

“What’s all this?” He questions, caressing the petal of a vase of tulips. She quickly takes out her little book and hastily writes in it, snapping his fingers Loki summons the book into his hand and peers at it.

_ Grandmaster had all of these flowers delivered to your chamber. There’s a card somewhere here too _ . With his seiðr, Loki sends the book back to her as she hastily sets about searching amongst the sea of flowers for the card. She lets a garbled sound of elation when she plucks a pale yellow card out and hands it to him.

Reading the card over, Loki finds it’s mostly Grandmaster apologizing to him for what occurred at dinner, and to show the sincerity of his apology he’s sent along some gifts that are the first out of many to come.

Glancing up, Loki sees Kaia’s face is colored with surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

She’s smiling as she shows him what she’s written down.  _ You’re smiling _ . Loki hadn’t noticed that the corner of his lips were curled up, letting the smile quickly slip from his face at the involuntary movement of his own facial muscles.

“I was not!” He replies hotly, his face slightly heated.

_ What would you like for breakfast? _ She writes.

“I’ve already eaten, but if you can fetch me something light like a cup of tea.” She nods her head at his request before he remembers the handkerchief hidden in his tunic. “Oh, and also can you get this laundered.” He hands her the folded square of fabric.

Throughout the day, Loki receives gifts from Grandmaster as was promised on the card. By lunch, he receives expensive makeup. Various pressed powders, jars of lipstick and nail polish, sticks of eyeliner, and elegant brushes. Soon a few hours after that, Kaia delivers a beautiful emerald green dress made of chiffon. There’s a slit at the side that’ll show off his leg and a v neck that will show off his collarbone and stops at his chest. He’s admiring it as Kaia holds it up for him to see it. Shortly after the dress is delivered, another servant comes knocking on Loki’s chamber door, delivering jewelry to him along with a note from Grandmaster. The note informs him that Grandmaster wishes to make up for their last dinner by taking Loki out on a date out in the city. The note gives Loki the place and time and at the bottom informs him that he doesn’t have to show up but Grandmaster would be delighted if he did.

_ What do you plan on doing? _ Kaia asks him through writing.

“I think,” Loki contemplates as he runs his fingers over the soft material of the dress that’s spread out upon his bed, “I plan on making my husband eat his own heart.”

~♠♠♠~

Some distance away from the amphitheater, there’s a tall, golden building made of glass and metal. The first nine floors of the building are mainly hotel rooms, with the topmost floor that gives an amazing view of the city houses a restaurant.

That exact restaurant is snazzy and opulent in a way that reflects every quality about Crown City. But it boasts an opulence to it that sets it apart from any other eatery within the capital, a place where the cream of the crop of society are accepted. A beautiful chandelier hangs from the ceiling, crystalline raindrops that twinkle among the clatter of cutlery, chatter, and wine glasses tinkling together.

The restaurant is packed, guests already seated and dining, but many of them stop their meals, staring open mouthedly at the lone figure that breezes past them in gold high heels that make the figure an attractive beacon.

Seated in a booth that gives a spectacular view out onto the night sky that’s befalling the city, Grandmaster is seated upon cream leather, his elbows resting upon dark wood and opulent tableware on either side of his arms. He stares out at the stars that are lightly twinkling in the midnight blue sky. The sound of footsteps approaching the table draw his gaze away from the window, a waiter approaches with a bottle of wine and offers it to him.

“As much as I would never turn down a glass of wine, I’m waiting for my dat—” His words die on his tongue, snatched from him, leaving him gobsmacked.

With a smile curving her painted lips, Loki places a hand upon her ample chest, her gaze that could all but melt metal with a look alone settles upon the waiter whose own eyes are wide in their head. “I believe I would be that date,” her voice as rich as smoke but sweeter than honey drifts through the restaurant causing spines to shiver and other patrons to melt into their seats.

A huge smile curves across Loki’s face, transformed into her female body, the emerald green dress hugs all of her feminine curves in the right places. Smoothing down the back of her dress, she slips into the booth, opposite of Grandmaster. Her dress seems to glitter beneath the golden, warm lights of the restaurant, drawing attention to her more noticeable features along with the jewelry she wears and the makeup she had spent some time on.

“Wow,” Grandmaster seems to breathe out after being left speechless, he breathes as if it’s the first time in his life that he’s become aware of oxygen. “You look—” his gaze lingers over Loki’s form, his eyes slightly darkened dragging over the slit of Loki’s chest to the v neck that exposes his collar bone and stops at the valley of her breasts. “—stunning; a vision; more beautiful than the stars themselves.”

Continuing to smile, Loki fixes her gaze upon the waiter, still standing there at the table, “I think I’ll take a glass of that wine.”

Wine poured into their glasses and a promise to deliver a set of menus, the waiter leaves just as the Grandmaster says, “I wasn’t even sure you were going to come.”

“Oh?” She takes a sip of her wine, it’s rich and sweet, a refreshing taste that sits upon the tongue. “What made you so inclined to think that?”

“Well,” Grandmaster cocks his head to the side, “to be blunt with my words, I was a bit of an ass the last time we sat down for a meal together.”

“A bit?” Loki inquires, brow cocked ever so slightly.

“Ok,” Grandmaster releases a sigh through his nose, nostrils flaring, “well not just a bit—a lot really.”

“Yes,” Loki nods, setting down her wine glass to count on her fingers, “you were very much an ass. You unraveled my enchantments,” she curls her index finger toward her palm, “without my consent,” another finger curls down, “and without even asking me beforehand if you could do so or how I even felt about the matter.” Another finger curls, brows raised so sharply upon her face that they could cut.

“Yea,” Grandmaster nods, now thoroughly chastened, “I know I can sometimes be an ass, I just never had anyone—” he rolls his wrist, lips thin upon his face.

“You never had anyone tell you it to your face before?” Loki offers for him.

“Right!”

The waiter comes over then, drops off their menus. Loki is flipping through hers when she says, “Your brother said something along those lines as well.”

“My brother?”

Loki glances up to see Grandmaster’s pinched face, his eyes dancing in his head as if he’s searching for a face to connect with that familial title.

“You have more than one?”

Grandmaster shrugs, “I have a lot of siblings, families complicated, maybe one day I’ll tell you about it, but I’d rather not get into, ah, the complexities of my family on our date. Ord’s a nice fellow, really into all of his plants and flowers.” He waves his hand dismissively, nose wrinkled slightly as if he hasn’t comprehended his brother’s passion even after all of these years.

“Ord?” Loki frowns at the unfamiliar name.

“The man you undoubtedly met in the gardens today,” he replies, lifting his own glass of wine to his lips. “He sort of takes care of all the gardens in Sakaar and a couple of others elsewhere.”

“So he’s the royal gardener,” Loki assumes, filing away the information that Ord actually has a name into his mind to examine, poke and prod later.

Taking a roll out of the complimentary bread basket that’s been placed in the middle of the table, Grandmaster splits it apart and starts to lather it up with some butter that’s also been set out. “He’s something like that,” he smiles biting into the bread that he’s smushed back together. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he says that and it makes Loki think about the palace library and if he can find anything in it on Grandmaster or his siblings. “But enough about my siblings,” Grandmaster taps a single finger against the table, “this date is about me and you.”

The waiter returns and they give him their orders as he takes away their menus. 

“So, Grandmaster,” Loki hums, taking up her napkin and spreading it across her lap, “tell me about yourself.”

A warm laugh spills from Grandmaster’s lips, “If I do that there wouldn’t be enough time in the world for me to get through everything.”

“Oh, and why would that be?”

Continuing to smile, Grandmaster chuckles as he shoves the last bit of bread into his mouth, “Oh, lo-lo, I think you and I could both take a guess at that, but there are plenty of other things we could talk about instead.”

Taking another sip of her wine, Loki glances away, staring at the other patrons as she feels the unmistakable heat of Grandmaster’s gaze upon her chest, she has to keep drinking her wine to keep him from seeing the smile that curves on her lips. “I have to thank you for the gifts, Grandmaster,” Loki finally speaks after setting down her glass, “especially the dress,” her voice drops to a husky whisper as she trails a single finger against the necklace she wears that dips into the valley of her breasts.

Grandmaster almost chokes on his own glass of wine at the movement as he all but watches Loki’s fingers trail seductively against the globes of exposed cleavage. He looks flustered as he speaks, “Good! Good! I wasn’t too certain what you liked, but I saw that dress and jewelry and knew I had to get it for you and I do have to say it, ah, looks really good on you.”

“Oh,” Loki smiles, eyes half-lidded, “I think it looks good on me too.” She waits until Grandmaster starts to take a sip of his wine, before speaking up, “but I’m also inclined to think it looks better off of me as well.”

Loki watches Grandmaster choke on his wine, jerks the glass away from his lips, coughs heavily as he hastily dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “Well,” Grandmaster huffs, clearing his throat, “ah, you have quite a way with words.” His gaze is dark like he’s considering tearing at Loki’s dress right here and now.

Laughter pierces through the air, the whites of Loki’s teeth exposed as she smiles. “It’s one of my better skills.”

“I’m sure it is,” Grandmaster remarks, finding his footing again, “and I’m sure you’re plenty talented at, ah, other things.” There’s heat to his words, a heat that Loki wants to see just how far it can go.

“Oh, yes, the skald, the recorders of Asgard’s history have composed many eddur about my skilled tongue,” the tip of his tongue pops off of the roof of his mouth in a seductive drawl as the last word leaves his mouth, “my very skilled mouth.”

Loki watches the way Grandmaster’s ears seem to flush pink, the man reaches up to his collar and tugs upon it.

“Ooof,” Grandmaster chuckles, ears burning brightly, “is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

Pleased with herself that she’s managed to get the Grandmaster to squirm, Loki’s all but excited when their food finally arrives at the table. If anyone thought Loki had been sated by the fun she already had at the Grandmaster’s expense they would be sorely wrong. The entire dinner is spent with Loki eating very sensually with Grandmaster watching her every movement. The sexual tension between the two, palpable in the restaurant that is executed with a single blow to the head when Loki decides to order a very chocolatey dessert. That all but has Grandmaster gripping the edge of the table to keep himself calm.

With dinner done, Grandmaster takes it on himself to escort Loki back to her chamber.

“You know, Loki,” Grandmaster speaks once they enter the halls of the palace, “I had...fun tonight.” He makes it sound like he hasn’t had fun in a long time, which makes Loki quirk a brow at his odd tone.

She wants to question it. Understand why Grandmaster says such a thing, but with such a good mood tonight, she decides against it. Instead, she says something else, “I had fun too when you aren’t making an ass of yourself of course.”

Grandmaster laughs, “That’s something I’ll keep noted for the future.” He continues to stare at Loki as they climb the steps up to the floor where Loki’s chamber is located, his fingers twitch with indecisiveness. A feeling that doesn’t last for long as his hands dart out, fingers skirting up the side of the bodice of Loki’s dress. The simple, slight movement causes Loki’s whole body to shiver. “Speaking of the future, you might want to wear this dress on all of our dates.”

“I’ll consider it.” Loki remarks when they finally reach her chamber, she notices the way he stares at her lips as she speaks. Deciding to tease him just a little more, Loki pushes her door open and quickly swivels on her heels. Her hand shoots out, fisting into the collar of Grandmaster’s robes, and pulls him in as if to kiss him, but instead brushes her painted lips against his cheek in the lightest of kisses. The beat of butterfly wings against a warm surface as she whispers, “goodnight Grandmaster, and good dreams.”

His eyes are blown wide as she pushes him out into the hall and shuts the door in his face.


End file.
